


Come Alive

by delires



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1960s NYC: Newly-wed junior advertising exec Blaine Anderson finds a missing piece to his puzzle in the back room of a Manhattan bar. Mad Men era AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I got flu and spent a week doing nothing but mainlining Mad Men and drinking cold medicine straight from the bottle.
> 
> I'd kind of love for it to become a little series, if I can find the time. For now, it's just this drug-enduced extravaganza.

It isn’t the first bar Blaine has set foot in, but it’s certainly the classiest. The most deadly.

There are nerves buzzing in his fingertips as the coat-check girl peels the coat from his shoulders and winks at him with a Marilyn Monroe twinkle in her eye. Blaine’s gaze follows her sashay all the way back to the cloakroom. He can’t help but look; he's never seen a woman quite like that before.

The lights here are amber, caught in the sharp-cut glass of dim chandeliers. The music is slow and boozy and the carpets are thick. The servers slink between the tables, trailing that unattainable air of Manhattan sophistication.

A boy is watching Blaine from behind the bar. He is leaning his chin on one hand, holding a cigarette between two fingers. When their eyes meet, Blaine feels a rush he can’t explain.

“It’s something, right?” Sebastian says, looking at Blaine. He slides his hands into his pockets.

“Yes,” Blaine breathes, already drunk on the atmosphere.

They take a booth on the far side of the room, past the stage where a brunette is singing in a smoky voice.

“Damn,” says Sam, in dazzled amazement. He unbuttons his jacket before sitting down beside Blaine. They are the new guys here. It pays for them to stick together.

“I’ve been coming here two years and I still get that reaction,” Noah says. He reaches forwards for a handful of the bar nuts that are laid out in a little glass bowl on their table. “This place doesn’t get old. These girls don’t get old.”

“Neither do the boys,” Sebastian says, with an emphasis that makes Blaine blush.

“Not in my face, friend," Noah warns, "You save that for the back room."

Once their hostess has left, they are soon joined by a waiter with slender hips and a beautiful pale throat, visible through the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. He wears no tie; he's decorated only by a coy smile and an expensive wristwatch.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he says, in an unusually pretty voice. “Some drinks for you?”

Sebastian leans forwards. “Evening. I believe it’s martinis all round.”

“Desperately original of you,” the waiter says. He slips his notepad away without writing anything down. Blaine is taken back by the mildly rude service, but Sebastian looks pleased.

“I don’t see you doing anything different night after night, Kurt.”

Kurt smiles, too bright to be genuine. “Well, that's just because there's nowhere I'd rather be."

“Double it for me. I’m no lightweight.” Noah holds up two fingers, then leans towards Blaine and adds, “We don’t want things to be too uneven. No offence, but you look like a stiff breeze could blow you down.”

Blaine shifts in his seat, embarrassed. After his first drink-laden dinner meeting on Tuesday, he'd had to go right home and lie down in a darkened room until his head stopped spinning. He'd heard that city jobs were supposed to make a man of you by the drinking alone, but he hadn't realised quite how far he still had to go on that front.

Until recently, the most he'd ever had to drink was a couple of glasses of wine with a meal or a beer or two while standing around someone's back yard. And even then, he had usually been under parental supervision. At their wedding, Rachel had been able to positively drink him under the table.

Now, Blaine looks back at the waiter somewhat apologetically and finds that he is being regarded with interest. 

“New boys,” the waiter - Kurt - says. His eyes are blue, or maybe green – the amber lights make it hard to tell. He is the same boy who Blaine noticed when they first walked in.

“New to you.” Sebastian gestures grandly across the table, to where Blaine and Sam sit like sacrificial virgins. “May I present our latest additions, Mr Sam Evans of Nowheresville, Deep South, and Mr Blaine Anderson of Dead End, New England. Gentlemen, this is Kurt Hummel - our regular. No one really knows where he came from, but he's got New York in his blood. And, by now, enough dirt on us all to make anyone’s wife drop dead of the scandal.”

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you," Sam says, smiling his big southern smile and offering Kurt a handshake.

Kurt looks at Sam’s hand with amusement before taking it, as though shaking hands is a ritual that has become so outdated and obsolete that he can’t quite believe he is being asked to participate in it. Blaine doesn’t want to be guilty of such a similar faux pas, so he lifts his hand in a tiny wave and smiles in what he hopes is a sophisticated manner.

“Sam and I both just started at Hartleigh-Smythe. We’re- Well, I guess you know already what we do.”

Kurt smiles at him, but it's a little patronising, if Blaine is not mistaken. “Sure. You’re an ad man. I know all about what you guys do.”

Sebastian chuckles, staring up at Kurt with a smirk on his face. "You know every intimate detail, I’ll bet.”

Kurt bends closer to Sebastian, leaning one arm against the top of the booth, and shocks Blaine by saying in a voice that is suddenly husky: “I can divine a man’s career prospects from the taste of his spunk alone.”

“Is that right?” Sebastian is already pulling out his wallet to pay for the first round of drinks, but Noah gets there first, tossing bills onto the table and then craning his neck to look over towards the stage.

“Jesus Christ, Sebastian. Kurt, send Santana over here when she’s off the stage, will you? For the love of God.”

Kurt stops leaning on the booth and smartens up. “Of course. I’ll go fetch your martinis.”

Sebastian is still looking at him, holding a bill between two fingers.

“Hey, why don't you add one to the tab for yourself. Come drink with us.”

“I’ll take the drink, but I can’t sit right now," Kurt says, accepting the cash anyway. "I have two other tables. Maybe later.”

Sebastian sighs and offers another bill. He's more subtle this time, his fingers hiding exactly how much he's holding. “How about you make sure there’s a later?"

“How about I do my job while you sit back and enjoy the music?”

When it becomes obvious that Kurt is not going to take that second offering, Sebastian tucks the money back into his wallet. Blaine can't tell for sure, but it looks like it might have been a lot.

“So icy tonight,” Sebastian says.

“Maybe the last time put me off." Kurt smiles at the rest of them. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll get those drinks sent right over.”

Sebastian watches their waiter walk away, without even trying to hide it. When he finally turns back around, he catches Blaine's eye and winks in a way that makes Blaine look quickly down at the drinks menu on the table in front of him.

"Why do you have to do that?" Noah says.

“What?" Sebastian laughs. "What am I doing?"

"Nobody’s drunk enough to watch you flirt."

There comes the click of a lighter, and then Noah is exhaling smoke across the table and offering Blaine a cigarette from a metal case. Blaine's still not much of smoker, but he takes one anyway, accepting a light from Noah with mumbled thanks.

On the other side of the room, Kurt is standing by the bar. He is taller than Blaine by a whisper, a little leaner too. As Blaine peers through the smoke, which is curling across his vision, he sees Kurt turn back towards their table. He's not looking at them, though; he's just staring away, his gaze aimed through the walls and out into the night.

His expression is sort of sad. Perhaps he is homesick, or pining for a sweetheart. He puts Blaine in mind of the figures in Hopper paintings. Stark. Alone. Pulling focus.

Kurt stays that way, leaning on the bar, his expression not changing until a new group of customers enters and he turns to greet them with a welcoming smile.

A missing sweetheart would make sense, Blaine thinks.

 

*

 

The singer comes to their table after her set is over and insinuates herself into their midst. She has a silky smile and dark eyes which Blaine is afraid to look directly into. She and Noah are clearly well-acquainted. It is not long before she is sitting in his lap, kissing him in a manner that Blaine’s mother would absolutely not consider proper in polite company.

Blaine isn't sure he finds it proper himself, particularly not when Noah has his face pressed against the side of her neck and she looks up and crooks a come hither finger in Blaine's direction as though inviting him to join them.

Something like that would definitely not be proper in any kind of company, polite or not.

Sam is utterly drunk, with his tie askew and his hair ruffled by the hands of a beautiful blonde woman who has come to sit beside him. She is the hostess who took their coats at the start, if Blaine remembers correctly. She certainly works here. Blaine has seen she and Kurt passing trays of drinks between them, co-working the tables in one section.

It isn't hard to keep an eye on where Kurt is in the room. Blaine finds his attention returning to him again and again, like a compass needle swinging North. Blaine doesn't kid himself that he is being subtle, but if Kurt has noticed the attention, then he is certainly doing a good job of ignoring it.

Sebastian is talking to another boy, this one tall and blonde, not as handsome as Kurt. Sebastian only talks to the boys, which is something Blaine understands, even if he can only really admit it to himself when he's had this much to drink.

It doesn't matter what you feel deep inside. What matters is that you always do right on the outside, and never give anyone a reason to call you out. Only keeping male company is something that simply isn’t done.

Unless you are Sebastian Smythe, it seems, and have a father whose agency controls half the advertising budget of Manhattan. Or unless you are in this bar, where nobody appears to care; where the waiters move like liquid and have sly smiles for anyone who looks too long. 

It's terrifying. And wonderful. And Blaine keeps on drinking, because he doesn't know what else to do.

 

*

 

The bar is smooth beneath his palms, damp with rings left by cold glasses. He doesn't remember walking over here, but Sebastian pushes down on his shoulders and then he is sitting on a stool, and Kurt is turning to look at him, beautiful face lit by one of the jagged chandeliers hanging overhead.

“Blaine here needs babysitting," Sebastian says, putting his hand on Kurt's back and speaking close to his ear. "Talk to him. Your tables can wait.”

There is the clink of glasses against the bar, the dry sound of money changing hands and then Sebastian is gone and something is wrong here.

Blaine shakes his head and tries to stand. "I should really go home," he says, but the stool falls away too quickly and he finds himself being supported by strong hands.

“Oh dear.” Kurt pushes the stool right with his foot and guides Blaine back into it. “Sit down. I won’t bite. We aren’t monsters, you know.”

“I would never think that,” Blaine mumbles, feeling like a fool. He is drunk. Kurt is looking at him in concern. His eyes are wide and clear and beautiful - an advertiser's dream. They are too perfect to be real.

Blaine holds onto the bar and tries to sit up straight, tries to will himself to be less drunk. He looks for something to fix his gaze on and settles for a couple of crisp twenties lying on the bar.

"That's an awful lot of drinks money," Blaine says.

Kurt picks the bills up and slips them into his pocket, his movements a little rushed, as though it was not something Blaine was supposed to comment on.

"I can hold my liquor. Don't worry. We'll burn through that no problem."

Blaine rubs a hand over his face. "I shouldn't be burning anything. I think I've already burnt a lot."

"No, I'll take this, shall I? Let's have some water." Kurt moves the cocktail in front of Blaine away and gestures to the man behind the bar, who quickly presents them with two glasses of water. Blaine drinks half of his in one go.

“It’s not been long, has it?" Kurt says. "That you’ve been in this city?” 

Blaine wipes his cold lips with the backs of his fingers. “No," he says. "A few weeks.”

“It can be a scary place.”

“Terrifying.”

Now that the singing has ended, there is a piano playing instead. It is a piece Blaine knows, though it's slowed right down, made languid where it should be played upbeat. They listen together for a moment. When Kurt speaks next, his tone is pleasantly conversational.

“Do you like the movies, Blaine?”

“Yes. I’d say so.”

“What is the last movie you saw?”

"I believe it was Some Like It Hot. A revival at our local theatre."

Kurt smiles. He pushes his own glass of water forwards when he sees that Blaine's is all gone. “I think that Marilyn’s something really special, don’t you?”  

Blaine takes the water gratefully. “She is.”

“Her voice gives me goosebumps. It’s not her singing; it's the way she sings things. Do you know what I mean? There’s a quality to her. Like light come alive.”

“Light come alive. That’s beautiful.” Blaine pauses to think, then says, “I like Fred Astaire.”

“I like him too," Kurt says. "Who wouldn’t want to move like that? Come on."

Kurt is kind, Blaine realises, really kind, in a way he wouldn’t have expected a boy like him to be. He’s always imagined – well. He hasn't ever imagined anything, he supposes, because he has never really thought about boys like Kurt. They are the kind of boys you don't speak about.

The water is helping. After a while the room starts coming into focus again, and the pounding in Blaine's head settles to a muted buzz.

Kurt scoots his stool closer, seems to listen intently as Blaine talks to him, describing childhood vacations to the coast, the creamy-leathered interior of the Cadillac he wants to buy (Kurt’s father is a mechanic – he says he knows how to make any engine purr like a dream) and the dizzying challenge of finding a way to make the American public see laundry detergent as something sensual.

"Bed sheets," Kurt says.

Blaine pauses. "I'm sorry?"

"Climbing into bed with someone for the first time and wrapping them up in freshly laundered sheets. That's how you make detergent sexy. Fresh sheets are the perfect canvas for starting something new."

Blaine must be staring comically, because Kurt laughs. "I'm just thinking out loud here."

"A fresh canvas. That's perfect."

Blaine finds himself patting down his pockets for a pen so he can jot the idea down. He pulls a bar napkin towards him, but comes up short on his pocket search.

There is a click and then Kurt is holding out a sleek silver ballpoint. Blaine thanks him and scribbles himself a sloppy note, his fingers a little numb from drinking so much:

_Fresh sheets - blank canvas - wrapping new love up in possibility_

Kurt watches Blaine fold the napkin as carefully as he can and then tuck it into the creases of his wallet.

"I wasn’t kidding before when I said that I knew about this stuff. I used to work in the creative team at Coleman and Pierce. I was good too. You remember the Northwood Tobacco black and white campaign?"

"I love those posters," Blaine says, in amazement. "I have one on my office wall."

"They were mine."

"What happened?"

"That old codger Pierce gave me the boot."

There is a hard edge to Kurt's voice, and for the first time he isn't meeting Blaine's eyes. He's looking down at the bar instead and fiddling with the strap of his beautiful watch. Blaine wants to think of something appropriately consoling to say, but then Kurt looks up with sudden determination. "Listen. Why don't you come to the other room with me? I can tell you about it there." 

Blaine doesn't even think to question it. He stands up and offers Kurt his hand, before he can quite rationalise what he is doing. It seems ridiculous right away, holding his hand out to help another man to his feet in a drunken parody of old chivalry. But Kurt doesn't mock him. Instead he smiles and puts his hand into Blaine's before sliding gracefully off his stool.

"Come on, Cary Grant," Kurt says, tightening his fingers around Blaine's and using the grip to lead him towards a curtained doorway. "Let's see what's cooking behind the scenes."

The back room is cool and peaceful, with walls that are papered in pale jade. There is a couch that has seen better days, and a side table with a decanter of liquor. The light fittings are stunning art deco affairs - delicate glass straws which hang down around muted bulbs. In between the lamps there are huge swathes of shadow. It reminds Blaine of the cavern he used to visit on vacation when he was a child - the kind of place where people stop talking and just sink into themselves.

Blaine sits on the couch, running his fingers over the old velvet which covers it. By the table, Kurt pours himself a drink, drains it standing up, then immediately bends to pour another.

The lines of his body are hypnotic. Blaine can't look away. He is still staring when Kurt turns around and starts to walk towards him, glass in hand.

"I had an affair with the elevator boy," Kurt says, as he takes a seat on the couch.

Blaine can't help feeling a little shocked at the way he says it. His voice is so matter of fact, even though there is no part of that sentence which does not fly hissing and spitting in the face of convention.

Kurt knocks back a little more of his scotch. "That wasn't the problem. The problem was that I was foolish enough to let someone catch me at it. I was on thin ice there from the start, you see. They only agreed to hire me in the first place because I was friends with the boss's daughter and she managed to convince him that I wasn't queer. You know, that my voice, and my face - and pretty much everything else about me - was just unfortunate. She did her best. I was the one who screwed it up."

"I think your voice is lovely," Blaine says, quietly.

Kurt looks up, from where he has been staring down into the bottom of his glass and his face looks different somehow. He isn't smiling. There is some other emotion there behind his eyes, but it is something Blaine can't quite read.

Very slowly, like he suspects Blaine might be afraid of sudden movements, Kurt leans forwards and sets his tumbler down on the floor. Then, he eases himself closer, shifting along the couch until his knee is touching Blaine's thigh, where the contact sends a buzz of sensation tripping over his skin.

"Sebastian talked to me about you." Kurt's voice is just above a whisper. "He said you might need some help coming to terms with things. I’m good at helping with that."

Blaine tries to swallow, but finds that the motion sticks in his throat.

"Coming to terms with what?" he manages to say. This is quite miraculous considering that Kurt has reached out and is now smoothing the lapel of Blaine's jacket with his fingers.

"Look at you. You've got camouflage. You're dictionary definition straight." Kurt smiles as his fingers trail higher, to brush against the bow at Blaine's collar, before working to undo the tie. "Well, almost. Are you married?"

Blaine's heart is racing as the edges of his collar come apart under Kurt's touch.

"Newly-wed."

"Hmm. Lucky girl," Kurt murmurs. He nuzzles his parted lips against Blaine's throat.

It is then that Blaine falls for him. Completely and irrevocably.

"I've never-" Blaine gasps, as one of Kurt's hands slides up along the inside of his thigh.

"Oh, sweetheart," Kurt soothes, cupping Blaine's face in his hand and petting his cheekbone with one thumb. "Don't worry about that. I'll take care of everything."

He is holding Blaine’s gaze, just starting to smile as he eases his body down and away, sinking to his knees on the carpet. Blaine wants to smile back, but he needs his mouth open to get enough air. His lungs aren’t doing a good enough job on their own right now.

The flies of Blaine’s pants are already undone. He doesn’t remember doing it himself, and figures Kurt must have made that happen earlier by some clever sleight of hand. He presents like an illusionist, after all. It’s as though he has all the world’s best-kept secrets hidden behind his pristine face. And whether it’s real, or just tricks of the light, Blaine certainly feels like he’s under a spell.

There is a moment where Kurt squeezes his knee and asks, “Is this okay?”

Blaine knows he’s being asked to give permission. He’s not exactly clear what for, but he knows that he wants whatever it is badly enough to nod his head and say “Please, please, please,” repeating the word until Kurt’s fingers are suddenly right there touching him, sliding around and along and then his mouth – God, his _mouth_ – tongue velvet-wet and strong, and Blaine closes his eyes and feels himself melt right into the sofa.

His own hand is resting at the side of Kurt’s jaw – just resting, he’s too afraid to hold tight. He can feel the way Kurt’s mouth is moving, the hollow of his cheeks. And Blaine is shaking, literally shaking, his hips moving to a rhythm of their own.

It’s too much. It’s what he’s been warned about, what he’s not supposed to think about, what he’s not supposed to _do_. This is what you go to church to forget about. But it’s so good. It’s so good and he always knew it would be. Blaine is a new sinner, about to fall.

He opens his eyes and looks down to see Kurt watching him, eyes sharp and green, definitely green, his lips stretched obscenely as they slide around the width of Blaine’s dick. It’s the best thing Blaine has ever seen. 

There comes a jolt like electricity. It doesn’t fade, but stays and grows and grows, until Blaine is crying out loud and digging his nails into the cushions as he completely dissolves into the pale cave-light of the room.

 

*

 

There is a clammy chill in the air when Blaine wakes. He can feel it on his skin, where one arm has slipped free from whatever is draped over him, something warm and furry and smelling like his mother's Chanel.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to blow this joint." Sebastian's face comes into focus. He's gripping Blaine's shoulder, shaking him, not being gentle. "Seriously, Anderson. Don't you think you'd better get up before your wife starts thinking too hard about where you are?"

_Rachel._ The thought is like a shock of cold water. Blaine sits up with a gasp, groping to check his pants are fastened beneath the untucked hem of his undershirt.

The Chanel-drenched fur coat which had been protecting him from the cold is now crumpled on the floor. Blaine bends to retrieve it but doesn't make it up again - the rush of movement has made his head spin and he's not confident he can stand up in one piece.

Sebastian drapes Blaine's shirt around his shoulders and shakes out his suit jacket. "You look like somebody's wrecked you," he says, with one of his too-knowing smirks. "What have you been up to back here?"

Blaine pauses in the middle of struggling into his shirtsleeves, as he relives that first delicious slide into Kurt's lovely mouth.

He is sitting there, frozen, when Sebastian leans a little closer and says in a voice that makes an uneasy shiver ripple through Blaine's body, "Why, Anderson. You're looking rather flushed."

Kurt is nowhere to be seen as Sebastian ushers Blaine back through the bar. The dim light is gone now, replaced by something glaring. The music has stopped. The tables are empty. A balding man who is sweeping the floor in front of the stage gives them an unpleasant glance as they pass.

There is a car already waiting for them on the street. The driver gets out to hold the door and Blaine slides inside, concentrating on trying not to give in to the waves of nausea which keep creeping up. 

Sebastian climbs in next to him and slams the door on his side. He leans forwards to speak to the driver before settling back in his seat.

"We're making two stops tonight. Mr Anderson is upper east."

As the car pulls into the almost empty street, Blaine rests his forehead against the cool window glass. The sign above the bar is still illuminated, pink glow spilling over into the mouth of an alleyway at the side of the building. There, pink-silhouetted, Blaine can see two smokers standing together. The first is slim and delicately curvy, with a wrap thrown around her shoulders. It is the other figure Blaine stares at, who has his shirtsleeves rolled up over his forearms, one hip cocked against the brick wall, and his long legs crossed at the ankles.

At the last moment, Kurt exhales a breath of smoke which obscures his face so that Blaine can't tell if he's watching them go.

Later, after creeping into bed next to Rachel, Blaine rubs his face against the fresh cotton of his pillowcase, pulls the sheet tight around his body and finds that he is smiling.

When he falls asleep, he dreams of Marilyn Monroe.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for weightofwater, who left the most lovely comment and made me want to post more. <3

Quinn turns to look after the car, probably because she can see the way that the face in the window has caught Kurt's attention.

"Who's the John?" she asks, flicking the end of her cigarette with a manicured fingernail. 

Kurt watches the car turn left around the corner. He drops the last of his smoke and grinds it out under the heel of his shoe.

"Just some John. Are you coming in?"

Quinn pulls her wrap more tightly around her. 

"Yes. It's freezing. I can't believe someone stole my mink. I know there'll be another where that came from, but that doesn't make it okay. It had better have been a customer. If I find out it was Santana..."

Kurt holds the door for her on the way in. He's thinking about how he had tucked her coat right up under Blaine's chin and then stood for far too long, watching his dark eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. 

The door swings shut behind them, the security bar clanging into place.

"Maybe I saw it lying around somewhere," Kurt says. "I'll check in back for you."

"It doesn't matter." Quinn sits down in the nearest booth and slips off her heels. "We’re getting on the subway."

Kurt looks towards the bar, where Andre is working methodically through the clean up. He thinks about going over to help, but his feet are aching from waiting tables all evening and his jaw is aching from putting far too much effort into going down on another of Sebastian's doe-eyed future conquests. What has Andre done for him lately? The seat beside Quinn looks far too tempting.

"God," Kurt says, stretching his legs out beneath the table, as far as they will go, "I need another smoke already."

"Tell me about it."

Quinn shifts a little closer so she can rest her head lightly against his shoulder. She is always economical in her touches, each one precisely controlled. There is no warmth and spontaneity from a woman like Quinn Fabray. Unless warmth and spontaneity happen to be what you're paying her for. If that's the case, that stuff gets laid on in spades.

Kurt picks up one of the shoes resting in her lap and turns it over in his hands. They are black and elegant, with an Yves Saint Laurent slant to the arch.

"I like these ones."

"Patent," Quinn says, with a smirk. "They came with the mink. You should ask for a pair the next time we get some queer old goldmine in."

"I'd rather take the cash."

Quinn makes a thoughtful little 'hmm' noise at that. She slides her hand into his pants pocket and counts out the bills she finds there. 

"Not a bad night," she says, impressed.

"I've certainly had worse." Kurt can still picture Blaine's hazel eyes.

"We've always had worse. You know, when I get out of here, I'm going to become a stewardess. It would be easy. Those Pan Am girls you see in the papers? Not a single one of them as pretty as me."

"I'm not going to argue with that."

"None of them are as pretty as you either, Hummel, before you get jealous," a new voice says. "If you ask me? I think you could absolutely make it as a Pan Am girl." 

Kurt looks up to find Santana smiling down at them. She edges her way into the booth, forcing them to make room with cruelly-aimed shunts of her hip.

"And you could absolutely make it as a malignant bitch," Kurt tells her. "No. My mistake. You already made it there."

She smiles at him. "Everybody needs to follow their dreams. Look around you, baby. We've all made it." 

Santana picks up someone's abandoned tumbler from the table, and drains the half shot of whiskey left at the bottom. Quinn wrinkles her nose, though none of them are honestly the type to waste free liquor. 

As Santana begins to hunt through the rest of the empties Quinn holds up Kurt's haul and shakes the bills so that they flutter in Santana's face.

"One of us had an especially good night tonight."

"Nice, Quinny. Not bad for your pains." 

Kurt grabs the money before Santana can get her paws on it. He folds it and tucks it safely away in his pocket. "My pains, actually. And don't think for a second that you'll be seeing a penny of it. I want us to pay the gas bill this month. I know your reptilian blood means that you can't feel the cold, but if I have to have one more freezing bath then I am going to scream."

"Well that is a shame and a half, Lady Hummel. I do enjoy hearing your girlish scream on the other side of my wall. I've been missing it since Bobby moved to Brooklyn," Santana says with an unpleasant smile. "How's he doing, by the way? I heard he'd found himself a real man to keep him satisfied out there. He never even has to cross the river anymore. No reason to leave."

"Oh, a real man? You mean like the man who's getting ready to walk Brittany down the aisle?" Kurt asks. "That kind of real man?"

Quinn lunges to hold Santana back before she can rip a clump of Kurt's hair out at the roots. "Hey! Don't do this tonight, you guys. I haven't got the energy."

There is a moment where Kurt thinks Santana is going to shake Quinn off and go for him anyway, that he'll be parting his hair to cover a bald patch for days. But then Santana slumps back in her seat. She reaches for another tumbler and throws back its contents looking so miserable that Kurt can't help feeling a little guilty. He knows her sore spots too well. That doesn't make it right for him to aim at them. 

Quinn knows it too. She gives him a look and relaxes her hold on Santana's shoulder with a soothing caress

The three of them go back a long way. Not in time, having only lived together for just over a year, but in experiences. They have been through tremendous events together - Quinn giving up the baby; Santana's almost-elopement with a Spanish dancer when she thought Brittany would never notice her; the scary man from the club who kept sending Kurt those creepy letters - and have had to rely on one another in honestly life-threatening moments, which sounds dramatic, but really isn't. It is nothing more than the truth. 

There is nobody else who knows all of Kurt's darkest secrets and has not turned away from him in disgust. 

Santana is not a friend Kurt can afford to lose, and not only because she'd make an absolutely lethal enemy. The truth is that all three of them need each other. He needs these ladies even more than he needs hot baths.

He lays one hand on Santana's silky knee, the other on Quinn's shoulder. "Listen," he says. "Why don't we go get waffles from Joanie's before bed? My treat."

*

Their apartment building is far from glamorous. It is a monstrosity of raw brick, crouching metal fire escapes and wallpaper turned yellow from years of cigarette smoke. 

A Polish couple live upstairs. They spend their days yelling at each other and fucking loudly in their creaky bed. Below them lives an elderly woman who has three cats, a love of cabbage soup and a deep-rooted suspicion of everyone besides Kurt. (She believes he is her long-lost nephew who ran away to enlist and then never came home. Kurt hasn't the heart to tell her that little Aidan was probably blown to smithereens years ago.)

The place isn't glamourous. But it's home.

Kurt usually wakes before Santana, but after Quinn, who hardly seems to sleep at all. On the afternoons when he isn't working an early shift at the Apollo, he puts together an outfit, drinks some coffee and then walks to his second job at the city library.

The library _is_ glamourous, and Kurt loves it more than any other place in the city. At first, it was nothing but an extra job when he'd desperately needed the money, but it's become an anchor of sanity, something that he can cling to to keep himself from being swept away by the river of slurry that makes up the rest of his life. 

He has never been particularly bookish himself, but he gets it now. It is a sanctuary. A place to watch shy people find confidence by losing themselves in other people's stories.

Of course, it's also a place to see the occasional pervert jerking off in secret beneath one of the reading tables. This is still New York, after all. 

Kurt is working modern fiction one afternoon in late summer, taking his time pushing a cart of returned books along the aisle, when he sees the head librarian’s worst nightmare unfolding before his eyes. A visitor is slipping a book inside his jacket with the clear intention of not following proper checkout procedure. 

Seeing that makes Kurt mad. It's like catching a houseguest trying to pocket his late mother’s silver.

“Hey,” he calls, abandoning his cart and marching forwards. 

The man startles and turns around. He’s tiny; shorter than Kurt; absolutely not a threat. 

Kurt draws himself up taller anyway and folds his arms across his chest. “Excuse me," he says, dropping his voice a bit below his natural pitch, "If you want to check that book then I strongly suggest you take it to the front desk, just like every other borrower. If, on the other hand, you happen to be a bit muddled about the exact definitions of the words ‘borrow’ and ‘steal’, then I’d be more than happy to direct you to our reference section, where you will find plenty of dictionaries to set you straight.”

The man has removed the book from his jacket and is clutching it in his hands. He stares at Kurt with wide, terrified eyes, like he’s been caught doing something far worse than trying to make off with a library book. He’s attractive, for a thief, Kurt thinks - and as soon as he does, he realises that he recognises this man. 

It must have been six months ago.

Hazel eyes. Long lashes.

Fresh sheets.

“I am so sorry,” Blaine says. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know why I tried to do that.”

Kurt feels shaken, a little breathless, like he can still taste the weight of the man’s cock on his tongue. Not often – not ever, in fact – do the two halves of his life combine like this and he suddenly doesn’t know quite how to act. Or who to be.

“Oh,” he says, unfolding his arms. “That’s–”

“No, it’s not okay. Please don’t tell me that it’s okay. This is not okay at all. I don’t have any kind of excuse.” Blaine says all this in a rush. He takes a step forwards and Kurt fights the urge to step back to maintain the distance between them. “Let me make up for it. Is there a fine? Do you want me to pay a fine? I can pay whatever you need me to pay.”

He looks so honestly contrite and his eyes are so very pretty here in the quiet library light - prettier than Kurt could possibly have remembered - that Kurt finds himself wanting nothing more than to make that look of distress disappear.

“Forget about it," Kurt says. "There’s no harm done.” 

He gathers himself enough to reach out for the book, which Blaine surrenders to him easily, and look down at the cover. _Giovanni’s Room_ , by James Baldwin. 

It's just about the gayest book Kurt knows. 

He has a vision of Blaine sitting alone with it, perhaps curled up on a leather sofa in one of those expensive new apartment blocks uptown, turning the pages frantically by the light of a single reading lamp, devouring the words in silence while his wife sleeps just down the hall in a cold and uninviting bed.

“I was going to bring it back,” Blaine says quietly. “I didn’t want anyone to know. But I’d never steal.”

“Well,” Kurt says, the word coming out more breath than sound. “Seems like you have an excuse after all.”

He runs his hand over the front cover. The letters of the title are raised against his fingertips. He remembers absolutely inhaling this book himself when he was still working at Coleman and Pierce. Back then, he'd spent hours daydreaming at his desk about how he could save enough money to buy a ticket to Europe – to Paris – where he could find a place that might be better. 

Kurt tucks the book under his arm, making a decision. 

“Come with me,” he says. “We’ll check this out for you.”

Blaine hurries after him as he leads the way between the shelves.

“No. Please. Don’t worry about it,” Blaine babbles. “I’d rather not. I really just picked it up on impulse. It’s probably not even to my taste. I’d just heard about it and I guess I was curious, so I–”

Kurt stops at the desk beside the entrance to the military history section, which is always pretty quiet, and flips open the record book there. 

“I can check it in my name,” he tells Blaine, with a vigorous thrust of the date stamp. “Don’t worry. It won’t be on your lending record.” 

There are paper bags beneath the desk, which they use for trash. Kurt slips the book into one of those before he hands it over with a reassuring smile.

Blaine blinks, a disbelieving flutter of lashes. He takes the book gently, like it is something alive and delicate which he is trying not to crush.

“Thank you.”

A terrible creeping feeling is beginning in Kurt’s chest. It is the same feeling he used to get when Bobby would to smile at him in the elevator and say “Where do you want me to fly this thing to, Mr Hummel?” 

That feeling is the reason why Kurt can't get a single ad agency in town to hire him, why he lives in a rundown apartment and works two jobs to make rent. It is a feeling he recognises, but not one which has ever brought him any good. 

Kurt clears his throat and makes his manner a little more brisk, as he says. “Forget it. Let me walk you out.” 

They head back through the reading rooms. Kurt can feel how Blaine keeps on looking his way, but he pretends not to notice. He just stares straight ahead.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Blaine says. 

“Of course you didn’t. How could you?”

“No. I suppose I couldn't.” 

They step outside into the summer air - Kurt trying not to feel anything when Blaine holds the door open for him - and walk together to the bottom of the stairs

“Well,” Kurt says with finality, holding out his hand to shake goodbye, “It was nice to see you again.”

He is not prepared for the look on Blaine’s face. It’s a sort of fidgety desperation which brings back that feeling in a rush. It makes Kurt afraid.

“How have you been?” Blaine says, clearly grasping at straws. He holds Kurt's hand a little too tight.

“I've been fine. How about you?”

“I’m okay. Confused, I guess.”

This is not the place for that discussion - there are people here, hurrying up and down the steps, meeting and hugging and exchanging business cards. Neither is this Kurt's problem. It can’t be. Maybe it’s callous, but he pulls his hand away and starts walking back up the stairs. 

"I'll see you, Blaine."

“Did you hear about Marilyn?” Blaine calls out.

Kurt pauses and looks back, in spite of himself. “I did," he says. "It's tragic. I actually cried. Can you believe it?”

“I cried too.” Blaine climbs the steps until they are standing level. For a horrifying moment, Kurt thinks Blaine might be about to take his hand again, but he is only readjusting his hold on the paper-wrapped book. 

Although, what comes next might be even worse. 

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me?”

Kurt is shaking his head before Blaine has even finished the question.

“I don't think that's a good idea at all.”

“Really? Sounds like a swell idea to me.”

“Swell. Swell? How old are you?”

All of a sudden, Blaine smiles ─ really smiles. It's warm and a little blinding.

“Have coffee with me,” he repeats.

“Only a stupid man would refuse to learn from the mistakes of others,” Kurt says. "I can tell you aren't stupid. Don't make the mistake I did.”

“What? Don't fall in love with anyone?”

Kurt takes Blaine by the elbow and leads him to the edge of the staircase, where they will be more out of earshot. “Excuse me? Honey. A back room blow job bought for you by some city brat intent on getting you in the sack is not the start of a great romance. Mine wasn't the start of a great romance either. His name is Bobby. He's a musician. Sometimes we see each other. Sometimes we don't. Mostly we both just wish it never happened. Maybe then we might both have kept our jobs.”

“City brat?” Blaine says with a frown. “I don’t know what you’re alluding─”

Frustrated now, because clearly this is going to become his problem whether he wants it to or not, Kurt cuts him off. 

“You are not that naive. Look. Just. Don't trust that one. Okay? I know bad news when I see it and he is definitely it. You have a whole glistening career ahead of you. He'll ruin it without a thought.” 

They are standing a little too close, attracting looks. Kurt puts some space between them and makes his voice run less intense, trying for glib. “Don't let this crazy world snuff you out. We just lost Marilyn. The last thing I need is to be mourning for you too. It is not the right time of year to be wearing that much black.”

Kurt smiles, a practised one, one of his best, but Blaine is looking down and doesn't see it.

“Where's your watch?”

“What?”

“Your watch.” He looks up again, and Kurt has to blink quickly. 

“Oh. I sold it.”

“That's a shame.”

Kurt rubs his wrist. For a moment, he can’t think of a single thing to say. But then Blaine’s smile is back and he is finally leaving, heading down the stairs like he was meant to at the start.

“I'll see you again,” he says, lifting _Giovanni’s Room_ into the air and using it to wave goodbye. “You can count on that.”

"Bring that book back on time," Kurt calls after him, and then, muttering under his breath, "I refuse to pay somebody else’s fines.”

*

Later that afternoon, Kurt finds Bobby waiting for him outside his apartment door. He is wearing a fedora. And braces. And has his sleeves rolled up over his strong forearms. When he smiles, his teeth show white against his dark skin. 

It’s as though he knew about the encounter at the library and is appearing at Kurt’s door specifically to reinforce the logic of having nothing more to do with someone like Blaine.

“Evening, sugar,” Bobby says, as Kurt walks towards him down the hall. He removes his hat and straightens up. Kurt fishes his keys out of his pocket and taps them against the brim of Bobby’s hat. 

“Evening yourself. This thing is tacky.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t trust your fashion judgment anymore.”

It is a ridiculous thing for him to say; Kurt's sense of style is impeccable.

“You come all the way out here to tell me that?”

Bobby shrugs. “I had an audition at a piano bar downtown. Thought I’d call in and shoot the breeze with you.”

“Uh huh. Good luck with that.” Kurt turns the key. “This time of day Santana will be at home.”

Bobby lets out a low whistle between his teeth. 

“Oh, Jesus,” he says, but steps over the threshold anyway. 

The apartment smells like bacon. Santana is sitting at their tiny dining table, gnawing on some kind of sandwich, a tower of greasy meat dripping hot sauce and shoved between two slices of bread. 

She licks the fingers of one hand before holding it out to Bobby, so they can shake like two men.

“What’s new Bobby-o? Thought I heard someone lurking outside our door.”

“And you didn’t think to check?” Kurt says. He shoves the apartment window open a little wider, wrinkling his nose against the clinging smell of pork fat. It's one of those scents that works its way right into the fibres of your clothes and the pores of your skin.

Santana puts down her sandwich, the tower slumping against the plate.

“Without you here to protect me, dear? Anything could have become of me, answering the door to a stranger like that. What's a girl to do all on her own?"

She stands up and pulls Kurt towards her in what might look like a friendly hug to an outsider. But Santana is not a hugger. Kurt goes stiff in her arms and tries not to flinch too violently when he feels her lips right against his ear.

“I need to talk to you really, really badly,” she says, sotto voce. “And I mean alone. So lose the mister or I’ll lose him for you, comprende?” 

Santana pats Kurt’s cheek as she pulls away and then turns to fake-smile at Bobby, who is leaning against the back of their hideous pea-green couch, not looking like he’s been fooled by her ‘subtlety’.

“You want a sandwich?” she asks sweetly. “I can make you one. No trouble.”

“No thanks. I already ate. Was just in the neighbourhood and wanted to stop by and say hey.” He looks at Kurt. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Kurt says. “And it’s great to see you, Bob, really it is. But Santana and I need to get ready for work.”

One thing Bobby is good at is knowing when to step back. 

“Hey. Don’t sweat it,” he says immediately. “I'll just say what I came to say. Listen. Leo and me are playing with the boys at this jazz club on Madison next week. It would mean a lot to both of us if you could come along.” 

He hands over a business card with a flourish, offering it between two fingers – the way men at the bar hold out cash when they think they’re being suave. Santana gives a little snort. Kurt takes the card gingerly. It is black, with the grey outline of a double bass printed behind the letters. 

“It would mean a lot to Leo. Really,” Kurt says, his inflection flat. It's bitchy, but he can’t help it.

Bobby shakes his head. “Don’t do that.” 

Kurt is happy that things have worked out for Bobby. It’s great that he has his music and a new man and has managed to make a whole new life for himself after having the first one torn up and thrown in his face. It should be inspiring to see someone moving on like that. 

But Bobby went from elevator operator to jazz musician. The injuries he sustained from their collision were cosmetic, while Kurt had just about every bone in his body smashed. Is it so wrong if he doesn't want to go somewhere to watch Bobby flaunt his success?

Santana is still hovering impatiently. And of course it's wrong. Of course it's wrong to let your own bitterness get in the way of supporting a friend. Kurt sighs.

“I’ll try to make it."

Bobby claps his hands in delight. "Great! It's going to be such a show. It'll blow your mind." 

“Hey, bring someone," he adds, as they're saying goodbye at the door. "It’ll be like a double date.”

Kurt scowls at him. “Don't make me change my mind.”

Bobby blows him a kiss on his way down the stairs, from beneath his horrible fedora, and an image of Blaine crosses Kurt's mind, the impression chasing the sight of Bobby like the aftershock of a camera flash. 

It doesn’t last. When Kurt turns around, Santana is right there in front of him, sandwich plate in one hand and a letter that looks unpleasantly like a bill in the other.

"Are you through, Casanova? Because Mama's got a nice little cold shower right here in her hand if you need one."

"Literally? Because if we can't pay the gas again, then I think I'll survive this time. It's hot as hell today."

"See for yourself, duchess."

She hands him the letter, and it's so much worse than a gas bill.

"Shit," Kurt hisses. 

"Uh huh." Santana puts down the plate and leans back against the table. "You remember that loan I took to cover the other loan that was breathing down our necks? Well, those boys came calling. And let me tell you, honey, those are some big boys. I'm talking big enough to swallow you whole. And not just your happy parts either. I mean that whole pale and hairless body of yours in just one gulp."

Kurt's not laughing. He shakes the letter, staring at her. "Santana. How are we ever going to pay this?"

A flicker of honest concern passes across her face, which is truly a terrible thing to behold. She busies herself with collecting her purse from the coffee table and hoisting it onto her shoulder. 

"Well," she says, "Right now I'm going to go work a shift at Carmichael's and fish for tips like crazy. And then we're going to wring every last penny out of this place that we haven't already wrung."

Kurt follows her to the door. "And when it isn't enough?"

"We all start jacking off guys at the Apollo until our wrists are about to fall off." Santana strokes his cheekbone with her thumb, and Kurt knows it's not his imagination that she looks sad. "You make use of this face. And I'll make use of mine."

Once she's gone, Kurt sits at the table and smokes the last two cigarettes in his packet. 

Then, he gets up and starts going through the apartment for things they haven't already sold.

Quinn comes home some time later from her job at the diner to wash and change before heading out to a shift at the Apollo. She refuses to eat anything, though does knock back two fingers of gin, which Kurt can smell on her breath as she kisses him goodbye. 

When he got Spanish flu and had been too sick to work for a month, Quinn had bought him chicken soup every day and taken on extra shifts to cover his share of the rent, with not even a mention of his paying her back. 

And how could he forget that night when Santana had literally picked him up off the ground, when the two of them were still practically strangers? He won't forget the way that she propped him gently against the wall and wiped the blood from his face with her sleeve, all while repeatedly cursing whoever had done that to him. 

She's beautiful, and Quinn is beautiful, and it isn't fair that it has to be this way. 

Kurt thinks about going out to try getting drunk, but bar prices are high. Instead, he stays in and sorts laundry. Dark with dark. Light with light. Cotton whites to wash high. Silks and delicates - not so many of those these days. Anything that was worth anything has gone the same way as his watch: straight to the pawn shop.

He throws a wadded up undershirt angrily onto the cotton whites. Next, a bundle of dark socks which roll right off the bed. Then, Kurt hurls a pair of pants clear across the room and has to walk out, across the hall and into Santana's room, which is the only room with a fire escape (she claims it's because she stands the best chance against a burglar, should one ever break in - which is probably true). He throws open the window and takes huge, deep breaths, gasping and swallowing like the air is liquid he can drown himself in.

The city hums beneath him. Steamy and filthy and loud, even at this time, especially at this time, when the hustlers are on the streets and the drunks are awake and everyone is busy trying to make their life into something that it's not.

 _You know, it might not turn out exactly like you want it, kid_ , Kurt's dad had said to him, when Kurt had been young and pining for the New York City of his dreams. _A city can't work miracles._

 _Anywhere has to be better than here_ , Kurt had replied, using all of his strength to finally force his suitcase closed. _I want a place to feel at home. And Dad, it's New York!_

_I just don't want you to be disappointed if becoming some city hot shot doesn't make you as happy as you think it will. Home isn't a place, son. It's people. The people you care about. The people you love._

_So, what's a city, then?_

His dad had grinned at that. 

_A city is nothing but a load of buildings...filled with crap._

Kurt sits on the fire escape as the air grows cool and the sun sinks slowly down and stays down. 

Things get darker and colder, and colder and darker, until Kurt starts to wonder whether or not somewhere out there, in one of those buildings filled with crap, Blaine has turned on his reading lamp and opened up their book.


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine is in a good mood when he gets out of the meeting with the guys from Alabama Leather. It is the first new account they have landed from one of his creative steers (he can't take credit for the idea with the sheets, even if the partners think that came from him) and it feels great.

He's grinning as he walks towards his office, but hesitates when he reaches Mercedes' desk and sees that she has that apologetic look on her face, the one that means she's about to give him news he isn't going to like.

"What is it?" he asks, already hoping that it's nothing more important than a message to call Rachel back immediately so they can discuss new drapes for the bedroom or a coffee table for the lounge.

"Here's your mail," Mercedes says, standing up to hand it over across her typewriter. She's wearing a polka dot blouse above the smooth curves of her wide hips and her face is impeccably made up. Blaine takes the mail without looking at it.

"And?" 

"And Mr. Smythe is in there waiting to speak to you."

Blaine tries to hide the grimace, he really does, but Mercedes smirks at him, like it showed on his face all the same. 

"He's been waiting for a while," she continues. "Drank half of what was in there and then got me to fill the bottle up some more. I told him not to touch stuff, but I can't promise he's not already been through the whole place. Not that I think you've got secrets hidden in your desk drawers or anything, but I thought it fair to warn you."

Blaine stares at his office door and tries not to think about Sebastian pawing through his folders and stretching out across his couch.

"Thank you, Miss Jones."

Mercedes makes a sceptical humming noise and sits back down again.

"You're welcome. You buzz me if you need a lifeline."

Blaine smiles at her, then takes a breath and pushes open his door. 

For a moment he can't see Sebastian, but then the desk chair swings round and there he is, attractive in his well-tailored suit despite having all the personality of a rattlesnake.

"Lovely view in this office. Isn't there?"

Sebastian inclines his head ambiguously so it's not entirely clear if he's referring to the windows behind him or to Blaine standing in front of him. From the way his eyes run slowly up and down, Blaine thinks he knows the answer. He ignores his instinct to keep the door wide open to where Mercedes is punching away on her typewriter keys and lets it close with a soft click.

"Yes," Blaine says, politely. "It's very nice to look at."

Sebastian leans further back in the chair, making the legs creak. 

"You know, this used to be my office," he says.

Blaine nods. "I do. You've mentioned that before."

"So you have me to thank for it. I told Dad they should put you here."

"Well, thank you. It was nice of you."

A big grin. The drag of chair legs against carpet as Sebastian gets up.

"Nice," he repeats, like it's a dirty word. "You think everything's 'nice', don't you, Blaine?"

"A lot of things, yes." 

Blaine stays put while Sebastian prowls around the desk towards him.

"How was Alabama Leather? Were they nice too?"

"They liked the pitch," Blaine says, ignoring the way that Sebastian is now circling him like some kind of carrion bird. "We shook on it."

"Good work, killer." Sebastian claps him on the shoulder. His hand lingers there until Blaine shrugs it off, as casually as he can.

"It was Sam as well."

"Hey," Sebastian says, moving dead in front of him and taking him by the shoulders again, both of them this time. "As appealing as it might be in your private life, you won't get anywhere in this business by being bashful. If something's yours, you need to stand up and take it. You did a great job. You should own that."

"Thanks. That's-"

Sebastian smiles, releasing Blaine's shoulders with a little squeeze. "Let me guess. It's nice of me to say so."

"Yes."

Blaine has a glass paperweight on his desk, a present from Rachel to celebrate him getting his first job in the city. It looks like ocean waves - a swirl of cobalt blue and teal inside a bubble of colourless glass. There's never any breeze in the office to ruffle his papers, but Blaine likes to hold the thing in his hand, comforted by the smooth weight of it, the way that it starts out cold, but gradually warms to match the heat of his palm. 

Sebastian drifts back over to the desk and picks the paperweight up.

"So, tonight," he says, passing the glass ball back and forth from hand to hand, "I was thinking we might go down to the Apollo for a few drinks after work. What do you say? You had fun the last time we went there, right?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"A little too much fun, I seem to remember." 

Sebastian's smile is sly and provokes a flash of memory: the slow drag of Kurt's hands against his inner thighs, spreading him open. 

Blaine knows he is blushing, knows Sebastian can probably see it, and feels his cheeks heat further at the shame of being so transparent. 

"Rachel's expecting me home," he says, which sounds prim even to his own ears. "We're having dinner with her parents. And there's a man coming to tune the piano, so I have to make sure that turned out okay."

"Blow it off."

"I can't today, Sebastian. Maybe another time."

For a moment it seems like Sebastian is not going to agree, and Blaine isn't sure quite what that would mean. But then, things seem to loosen. The tension in the air eases off.

Sebastian tosses the heavy paperweight up and catches it one-handed. 

"Another time, then." 

"Sure."

Blaine opens the door to let in the light and the sound from the rest of the office, as clear a sign as he can think of that he needs this encounter to be over. 

Thankfully, Sebastian takes the hint. He hands Blaine the paperweight and winks at him when their fingers brush.

"I'm going to hold you to that," he says, on his way out the door. 

Mercedes looks up from her typing to see Sebastian give her a barely respectful nod as he passes. He saunters off down the hall, hands in his pockets, carrying Blaine's biggest secret so casually away with him.

It's coming to a head, Blaine thinks. Something. He's not sure what. But something is going to happen there soon if he doesn’t watch his step.

*

There's laughter coming from the lounge when Blaine gets home, genuine laughter, not the false kind that Rachel puts on sometimes when she wants to stress just exactly how happy she and Blaine are together, thank you very much.

He leaves his bag in the hall, walks towards the laughter and is surprised to find himself face to face with the denim-clad ass of a man who is bent over their piano. 

Shelby is sitting at the dining table, her legs neatly crossed at the knee. A cigarette is burning down between her fingers - she hardly smokes, but always seems to have one lit. She looks at the piano tuner, then catches Blaine's eye and lifts her chin as if to say, "well, how about this?"

Blaine belatedly realises that he's probably staring at that ass with a little too much focus, and in front of his mother-in-law.

"Um," he says, loud enough for Rachel to notice him. 

"Honey!"

She jumps up from the piano stool and kisses him, then curls her arm through his to lead him closer to the man who is standing up straight and wiping his large, strong hands off on his jeans. He's a good foot and a half taller than Blaine, with a broad chest and a slightly crooked smile.

"Blaine, this is Mr. Hudson," Rachel says, with delight. "He's here for the piano."

"It's Finn." The man gives his hand one last wipe and offers it to Blaine so they can shake. He has workman's hands, the skin of his palm and fingers roughened. 

"Hi," Blaine says. "Thanks for coming over."

Finn shuffles a bit, searching for something to say, his eyes wandering to where Rachel's hand is gripping Blaine arm. 

"Hey, no problem. You've got a beautiful piano." 

"It used to be Blaine's mother's. It was a wedding present," Rachel says. "We got married last fall."

Finn smiles vaguely, clearly unsure what to say. "Congratulations," is what he settles on. 

There is a pause before Finn makes a gesture like he's only just remembered something and starts rooting about in his tool bag. He comes out with a piece of paper - the summary of what he's owed - which he folds discreetly and passes to Blaine.

"You should be all set now. I'll get out of your hair."

Finn turns to close the lid of the piano, but Rachel yanks suddenly forward, jolting Blaine with the force of her excitement, as she reaches towards Finn and says, "Oh, you don't have to go right away!"

Blaine can feel her squeezing his elbow tighter, silently asking for back up.

"Of course," he says as courteously as he can. "You must have been working all day. Why don't you stay for a cup of coffee?"

"I don't want to put you all out."

"It's no trouble," Blaine says, while Rachel beams, the squeezing turning into a grateful caress. 

"We absolutely insist," she adds. "And won't take no for an answer."

"Okay," Finn says with a laugh. "I mean that's kind of a creepy way to put it, but okay."

Rachel lets go of Blaine's arm and claps her hands together, as she bounces a little on the balls of her feet. 

"Wonderful! Daddy bought us the most _delicious_ Italian roast. You have to try it. It's simply divine. You'll help me in the kitchen, Finn, if you don't mind?"

As Rachel leads the piano tuner into their kitchen, Blaine goes over to kiss his mother-in-law hello. He inhales the mingled scents of her perfume and ever-burning cigarettes as she tilts her cheek to meet his lips.

"Hello, darling," she says in her slinky voice, giving him an unsubtle once over. "You look a little thin. Isn't my daughter feeding you properly?"

Blaine pulls out a chair to sit beside her and turns on his most charming smile. "I'm busy at work. I don't get to fill up on Rachel's cooking as much as I should. And you're looking rather slim yourself, Mrs Berry."

Shelby sips at her cigarette and exhales almost immediately from the corner of her mouth, directing the smoke away from Blaine.

"You're sweet," she says, giving his knee a little pat. "You're a liar. But a sweet one."

Blaine settles more comfortably in his chair. He can hear Rachel talking up a storm in the kitchen, clattering with the French press and the cups and saucers.

"I thought Mr Berry was joining us this evening. Couldn't he make it?"

It's the wrong thing to say. Shelby's posture immediately goes tight. Blaine knows things between his in-laws aren't perfect, but he likes Hiram. It seems more uncomfortable to not mention his absence at all.

Shelby's next tiny exhale is a little more violent.

"Unfortunately, Rachel's father has better things to do than visit his only child. Like treating himself to another extended golfing trip with LeRoy."

"They are so cute," Rachel exclaims, as she comes back in. She is carrying the French press, but has left Finn to struggle with everything else, all wobbling on one big tray. 

Blaine gets up to help him. Rachel starts to unload the cups and teaspoons before they have even set the tray down safely.

"They've been best buddies for years now, my father and LeRoy," she explains, for Finn's benefit. "It's absolutely adorable."

Blaine can feel the weight of Shelby's bitterness, though Rachel seems not to notice and nor does Finn. 

"It's good for a guy to have friends," Finn says.

"You don't have many chums, honey." Rachel glances in Blaine's direction as she pushes down the plunger of the French press. He smiles at her.

"I have you."

"Oh, bravo," Shelby murmurs, as Rachel gives him an adoring look.

They drink their coffee while Rachel bombards Finn with questions and talks over his answers with opinions of her own. He doesn't seem to care. Perhaps he's used to being around women who know their own minds.

Shelby is clearly not interested in what her daughter has to say, so draws Blaine into a separate conversation about his work, smiling and squeezing his wrist in her harmlessly flirtatious way. She has been like that with him since he was sixteen and used to stop by the house to pick Rachel up for their dates.

After a while Finn gets up and says he has to leave if he's going to make it to his next appointment. 

While Rachel sees him to the door, loudly suggesting that he come back and visit any time he's in the neighbourhood, Shelby gets bottles of gin and tonic water out of the barely-touched liquor cabinet. She starts mixing her own drink for dinner, waving aside Blaine's offer to fix it for her.

"The way I take it would set your teeth on edge, darling," she says, lifting her glass to him in toast. "Ignorance is bliss."

*

"Wasn't Mr. Hudson interesting?" Rachel says later, once her mother has left and she and Blaine are undressing for bed.

Blaine shrugs his pyjama shirt over his bare shoulders and starts on the buttons.

"He certainly seemed like a friendly guy." 

They are young and married and have just survived a parental dinner, but Blaine is still surprised to find Rachel suddenly standing very close to him, in nothing but her silk camisole. She covers his hands with her own. He is about to ask her what's wrong, but then Rachel leans in to kiss him and it's obvious.

She coaxes his hands out of the way so that she can slide hers inside his half open shirt. Her fingertips are gentle, running down his sides, and her lips soft against his. Blaine closes his eyes. He tries to kiss her back without thinking too much about how every tiny motion feels, tries not to retreat into memories of the swallow and pull of Kurt's mouth around him.

It's not bad. He's doing quite well until Rachel's grip hardens around his waist, pulling him in closer so that their hips are pressed together and her silk-covered breasts are pushing against his chest.

With a gasp that he just about manages to disguise as a chuckle, Blaine pulls away and puts some distance between them. 

He doesn't meet her eyes at first, just concentrates on getting the rest of his buttons fastened. Once that's done and he has to look up, he sees that she is sitting on the bed, watching him.

"Blaine, honey, we need to talk about this," she says quietly. "We're living together in an unconsummated marriage."

Blaine pulls back the covers on his side of the bed and punches the already fluffed pillow before climbing in.

"Our marriage is definitely consummated," he says. "I remember that night quite clearly." 

"Darling, I'm not convinced the one time counts. It's not normal to only do it once."

Blaine doesn't want to have this conversation. He tries not to flinch when Rachel touches his shoulder. Instead he forces himself to turn towards her and lift an arm, inviting her to scoot up against him.

"I thought we were being extra careful," he says, once she's cuddled close. He kisses her hair. "What about your singing? You're not ready to have a family. You've told me so."

Rachel is silent for a moment, considering. Then, she looks up at him.

"Don't you love me?

Appalled, Blaine kisses her again. Forehead this time.

"Rachel. Yes. Of course I love you."

"Don't you want me?" 

She shifts so that she is kneeling astride his legs. 

Blaine looks up at her, at the dark waves of hair, at the camisole straps hanging on her slender shoulders and the shadow of her cleavage behind an edging of lace. He finds that he cannot answer, not even when she lifts her hands and places them nervously against his chest.

"Because I want you. All the time." Rachel's voice is a whisper. "Sometimes I feel like I'll die from how badly I want you."

Blaine feels sick, a little panicky, like he's going to snap and blurt out something he's not ready to say, something that will put an end to his life as he knows it.

"Rachel," he starts, but before he can get further, her mouth is on his again, more insistent this time, and her fingertips are digging into the back of his neck, her thighs tightening around his.

"Want you so much," she gasps.

"Stop," Blaine says. "Wait. Stop a second, will you?"

He shakes her off with a bit too much force, so that she tumbles onto the bed and is left staring at him with the most terrible look of betrayal on her face. 

"Why won't you let me? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing," he says, desperately. "Nothing's wrong with you, Rachel."

For a moment, she looks close to tears, but that look disappears as soon as it has come and her expression hardens. 

"You're right. So what's wrong with _you_ , Blaine?"

She climbs off the bed and starts putting on her robe angrily, while Blaine sits there, feeling winded. She has never spoken to him like that before. Nobody has.

He gets up and comes towards her, but she stops him with a raised hand.

"Just leave me for a minute, will you? I don't want to talk anymore." She opens the bedroom door and slams it behind her.

Blaine doesn't follow. He stays in their bedroom, holding his head in his hands and trying to calm the panic which is making his breaths come fast and shallow.

They never fight. In all the time they have been together Blaine can count the number of true arguments on one hand. Rachel is always so sure of what she wants and he is someone who likes to give. Usually, any disagreement is solved by him letting her have what she wants. But not this. This is the one thing he's not able to offer.

Eyes closed, Blaine thinks about the way Kurt smiled when he'd handed over the paper-wrapped book. He had been so kind and so careful of Blaine's secret. If he were here now, Blaine is sure that he'd be able to think of a way out of this. Kurt is that kind of person. He can already tell.

*

At two in the morning, Blaine wakes up to find that Rachel has still not come to bed, so he ventures out into the apartment and sees her asleep on their sofa. She is curled up for warmth, her knees tucked under her robe and her bare toes twisted together. 

The lamp on the side table is still on and a book is spread open beneath it, face down. Blaine tilts his head to read the title: _Lady Chatterley's Lover_. 

He sinks down on the couch and stares at her. His own borrowed copy of _Giovanni's Room_ is back at the office, hidden away in one of the drawers, secret from everyone, except probably Sebastian, who must have laughed his head off when he saw it. 

Rachel's book is a reminder that Blaine is not alone in wanting more than life has allowed him. He wonders who Rachel was thinking about as she read, whether it was him or some other man, someone she met at an audition, perhaps. Or maybe a piano tuner with strong hands.

Her arms go around him readily when he shakes her awake, and he doesn't hesitate to lift her up, so that he can carry her back to their bedroom. 

"I'm sorry," she says against his neck, in a voice that is tiny and croaky and makes Blaine's heart clench.

"I'm sorry too," he whispers, once they are settled close under the covers.

Rachel is perfect. Blaine wishes he could be normal for her, but he knows for certain now that he doesn't want her in the way he's supposed to. 

What that means for the life he has been busy building still feels so uncertain. That's what makes it so hard to even think about telling her the truth.

*

It's a busy night at The Apollo. 

Santana is covering the music shift for Charlotte, which means that they're down one waitress, and Kurt is trying to cover coat check as well as his tables because Quinn has the larger section tonight, further from the door.

He is in the middle of telling off Andre, who has managed to mix two Manhattans even though Kurt _very clearly_ asked for a Manhattan and a martini, when Quinn wafts by and catches his arm. 

"Table nine," she says, her voice low. "He’s asking for you."

She is about to leave it at that, but Kurt grabs her by the wrist, pulling her empty tray forwards.

"Any of yours order a Manhattan?"

"I have someone who asked me to bring him whatever drink is my favourite."

"Then your favourite is a Manhattan." Kurt sets the drink carefully on her tray, while craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of table nine, which is tucked right back in the shadows of the stage. 

"I have four tables already," he says.

"So trade one with me. Trust me. You want to trade. He’s alone. He’s obviously looking to spend." Quinn smiles. "And he’s cute."

"You'd tell me anyone was cute if it would get you what you wanted."

Quinn lifts the tray higher, balancing it expertly. "Sweetie, I'm not going to push any more than this. But you know we need the money."

Andre sets a martini clumsily down on the bar, spilling a little over the edge of the glass. He looks up for Kurt's approval. 

"Well, that will have to do, won't it?" Kurt snaps at him, distracted by thoughts of the second threatening letter they had found tacked to their apartment door. He takes his two drinks and motions for Quinn to lower her tray again.

"Fine," he says. "These go to sixteen. And you better take coat check too."

Kurt licks his lips and checks his hair in the mirror behind the bar before approaching table nine, because even paying customers will turn you down if you don't quite look the part.

Santana is just finishing up a set, her hips swaying, her hand sliding provocatively down the microphone stand. She catches Kurt's eye and gives him a wink through the spotlight glare as he slips between the tables, moving with feigned confidence towards the booth at the back of the room, where he can see a man sitting alone.

Once they are close enough to see each other properly, the man smiles a familiar smile and Kurt feels a rush of relief which quickly melts into a feeling of dread, because isn't it just the truth that everything good in life always seems to turn to shit in the end?

For a moment he considers turning around and walking back to the bar, but something keeps his feet moving and he finds himself sliding into the booth. There is a drink already waiting for him. And what a slick gesture that is. 

Kurt folds his hands neatly on the table and looks down at the drink in front of him.

"What's this?" he says, although he knows full well.

"It's an old fashioned," Blaine says. "The boys at work drink them. I wasn't really sure what-"

"Am I supposed to drink this first?"

Blaine blinks those ridiculously long lashes, all uncertain, like he's some kind of saint and not - as it turns out - the kind of guy who uses his overinflated wages to pay people to help him cheat on his wife. 

"Only if you want to," he says. His tone is so innocent. It's infuriating.

With the ease of practice, Kurt scoops all the ice from the glass with his fingers and downs the cocktail in three big swallows.

He puts the glass down, drops the ice back into it and smiles at Blaine seductively.

"Alright, stud. You ready to go behind that curtain?"

That kind of trick usually works a treat, but Blaine seems positively frozen. 

"Can't we stay out here?" he says. "I was hoping we could talk."

Kurt bites back the first catty retort that springs to mind and works hard to keep his smile in place.

"Look, lovely," he says, "I've got a lot of tables tonight. I'm rushed off my feet. If this is going to happen, it needs to be quick. We can talk all you want during. I think you'll find that I'm an excellent talker..." For good measure, Kurt's finds Blaine's leg beneath the table and runs his toes up the calf.

Blaine jerks like someone has jabbed him a pin. Surprised, Kurt withdraws his foot. 

"No," Blaine says, with a force he clearly has to muster. "I wanted to talk to the guy I met at the library. Is he here? I don't want to talk to this person. I don't want to talk to someone who reminds me of Sebastian."

Kurt breaks character immediately, letting out an unflatteringly dramatic gasp. 

"I do not remind you of that creep," he says. "Take it back."

Very slowly, the forceful expression disappears from Blaine's face and turns into a tentative smile. 

"Hi again."

"Hello," Kurt says. "And how dare you?"

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I didn't mean it."

There's something about hearing his name from those lips that makes it sound like the most beautiful word in the world, but Kurt tries not to let that idea take root.

"Say that we are nothing alike," he demands.

"He doesn't even compare," Blaine says, which is even better. And for extra brownie points he adds, "You were completely right about him, by the way."

In the wake of that statement Kurt is struck anew by just how attractive this man is. His throat is strong, his lips are full, and the bow tie at his collar is a stroke of sartorial genius. 

Kurt might be staring.

Blaine clears his throat and reaches down to pick something up from the seat beside him.

"I brought this back," he says, sliding _Giovanni's Room_ across the table. "I hope it's okay to return it here."

Kurt looks down at the book.

"Oh. That's why you came."

"I wanted to see you too," Blaine says. "The other day, my wife told me that I didn't have enough friends and I thought maybe I should make some." 

"Friends."

Blaine nods. "Would that be okay? If we became friends?"

Kurt feels like he has wandered into a Lewis Carroll story, where nothing quite makes sense, nobody is what they seem and the rules change faster than you can learn them. He wishes he had saved some of that drink and hadn't swallowed it all in one go. 

"Why would you want to be friends with a boy like me, Blaine?"

"I think you're smart. And interesting." Blaine touches his bow tie nervously. "And I feel like maybe I could grow on you, if you give me the chance." 

"Really?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think I have to get back to my tables."

That disappoints Blaine. It's there in the barely-noticeable slump of his shoulders and the way that he pulls his cold glass towards him, the drink still untouched. He's not that easy to read. Kurt has worked in this bar long enough to become an expert at interpreting signals. But Blaine's tells are well controlled and his impeccable manners are an added smoke screen.

"Okay," Blaine says. "I understand."

Kurt stands up with the book, but finds it surprisingly hard to just walk away. There is something in his gut tugging at him, an instinct which makes him pause and say, "Hey. Do you like jazz music?"

Blaine watches in confusion as Kurt scribbles the address of the bar Bobby will be playing at down on his order pad.

"I love it."

"Good." Kurt tears off the sheet and hands it over. "So I might see you here at nine on Saturday. And if you want to hang around for a while, maybe I'll have time for a real chat once I clock off tonight." 

Blaine looks up from the address like he's just finished unwrapping the most wonderful gift. It brings that dangerous old fluttery feeling right back to Kurt's stomach. 

"I definitely have time," Blaine says. "Especially if you promise to teach me that trick with the ice."

Kurt puts his pad away and smiles. Before he walks off, he puts his palm on the table and leans in a little closer to say, "You might be right, you know. I think you could grow on me."

*

Santana absolutely fucks him over, of course, by reaching the end of her last set and calling up her “two best girls” to support her on stage for a rendition of 'Mr Postman'. They do this sometimes, when the place is busy and squirming for a bit of extra pizazz, but Kurt's tables are packed, they are down just as many staff as they were at the start of the night and Andre can't be trusted on his own at the bar for more than five minutes. 

Santana is already helping Quinn onto the stage by the hand and they are both waving expectantly at Kurt and eliciting whoops and cat calls from all around. He shakes his head at first, because he's _busy_ and hasn't warmed up and Blaine is still here, patiently waiting all by himself in that booth. But then a spotlight swings round to land right on him and he catches sight of Sue giving him the evil eye from the corner of the room and it's not like he has a choice in the matter.

He leaves his tray on the nearest table and makes his way to the stage, trying not to look towards table nine. Quinn squeezes his arm once he's up there, smiling that adorable smile of hers, like butter wouldn't melt. 

Kurt just pulls a mic towards himself and says "I hate you all," quite clearly into it, to make the crowd laugh and to cover the fact that he's actually trying not to grin despite it all, because he doesn't get the singing shift often enough and it always feels good to let loose a bit. 

They have their choreography down - mapped out during gin-fuelled summer nights when their apartment was too hot and sticky to fall asleep - lots of hip shimmies and stop-sign hands. 

It's a song for forgetting your troubles, and it does the trick. With Quinn and Santana's shoulders bumping against his, and the thrill of an audience spread in front of him, Kurt can almost believe that he is living exactly the kind of life he always wanted, especially when the song comes to a close and he sees Blaine there, stepping out of the booth to give them a standing ovation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For misqueue, who has been a wonderful cheerleader for this story. :)

They go to this diner two blocks down from the Apollo, where a waitress serves them the most perfect grilled cheese sandwiches, crispy gold and oozing from the middle. The place is full of off-duty cabbies and tired women in night-old make-up, but nobody bothers them and their coffee cups are never allowed to run dry.

"You didn't," Kurt says, in what might even be considered delight. He is as cheerful and relaxed as Blaine has seen him yet. The look suits him.

"I did, I really did," Blaine admits. He looks down at his coffee cup, half-proud, half-embarrassed. "We were called the Warblers."

"Barbershop. Oh my god." Kurt laughs. "Did you wear those candy-striped jackets?"

"Do you know what? We did. Once. At this spring gala thing. We looked..."

"Dashing?"

"...so terrible. It was stupid."

"No."

"Yes. It was. It was stupid." Blaine shakes his head, but can't help a smile. "I loved it, though."

The waitress appears to refill their cups. At this rate, Blaine will be so pumped with caffeine that he won't sleep right for a week. Still, leaving is the furthest thing from his mind. They haven't talked about anything serious at all, nothing that Blaine thought he had come here to discuss. 

It's just fun. They've been having fun.

Kurt picks up his coffee and takes a sip while it's scalding hot. He nods towards Blaine.

"At least you dress better now."

Blaine is wearing a suit that Shelby picked out for him, topped off with a bow tie he bought himself as a treat when he was having a bad day. Nothing special.

"Thanks. I just. You know. Office clothes."

"I like this." Kurt touches his own throat with one fingertip and Blaine gets stuck there for a moment, staring at the pale skin, wondering how it might taste, what it would be like to lean right across the table and lick it. 

It's too long a pause.

"Your bow tie," Kurt prompts, jolting Blaine back to the moment and sending his fingers groping for the tie at his neck.

"Oh. You like it? My wife says they make me look old fashioned."

It feels weird, mentioning Rachel, but Kurt doesn't bat an eyelid. He just smiles and tilts his head to one side, staring at the bow tie like it's something much more interesting than a knotted bit of cloth.

"Not old fashioned," he says, thoughtfully. "Timeless."

The waitress leaves the cheque between them and walks away again before Blaine quite gets over that one.

"Wow. You can spin anything, can't you? I mean you really have the gift of the gab. You must have been a real asset to your firm."

"Not enough of an asset to keep them from firing me," Kurt says, which makes Blaine feel like an insensitive jerk, even more so when he adds, "I sure couldn't gab my way out of that one."

"Sorry," Blaine says, "I shouldn't-"

"It's late. We should probably get out of here."

Kurt picks up the check, but Blaine reaches over and takes it right out of his hand. 

"I'll get this. Please. Will you let me? Consider it the library fine I never paid."

Kurt agrees without meeting his eyes, then stands up and heads for the door while Blaine is still counting out a generous tip.

The streets outside are mostly empty, but the sky already has the glow of dawn. As Blaine steps out, the illuminated sign above the diner switches off with a fizz of extinguished power. Kurt is standing on the street corner, his spine straight, chin high, exuding that same untouchable air he'd had on the night Blaine first saw him. Hopperesque. Full of secrets.

Kurt turns his back to the breeze and cups his hand around a cigarette, making it easier to light. Blaine steps towards him, feeling a bit awkward. He suddenly doesn't know what to do with his hands, so shoves them into his pockets. When Kurt offers him the lit cigarette, he shakes his head.

"I try not to."

"Why's that?" Kurt waves his hand in front of his face, batting a mouthful of smoke out of the air between them. 

"I believe the rumours, I guess? My father's a doctor. I never really did develop a taste for it."

A garbage truck rumbles past them, trailing the sour smell of city waste after it. Blaine watches it go, wrinkling his nose, then turns back to find Kurt looking at him, with the cigarette burning idly between two fingers.

"You're not really like other people are you?" Kurt says. "I mean, you do such a good job of seeming conventional. But I don't think that you are."

Blaine doesn't know how to respond to that.

"You want me to smoke? I can smoke." 

He steps closer, reaching for the cigarette, but Kurt moves it out of his reach.

"Not being like everyone else is a good thing, Blaine. This whole city's full of idiots, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I've noticed." 

Blaine watches Kurt put the cigarette back between his lips and exhale into the morning air. He can't stop his gaze from travelling up and down the lines of Kurt's body, which is more beautiful than any he has ever seen.

"You're not like everybody else, either," Blaine says, and is immediately embarrassed by the way it comes out. A bit too reverent. Not even remotely smooth.

Kurt smiles at him, all the same.

"Oh, honey," he says, squinting a little as the rising sun begins to fully break between the skyscrapers. "I've known that all my life."

 

*

 

When Santana's bedroom door creaks open and Kurt looks up to see Quinn stepping timidly out in nothing but an artfully wound bed sheet, it is not a total shock to him. 

He turns away from his vanity and leans against his doorframe, raising one eyebrow as Quinn catches sight of him and freezes mid-tiptoe.

"Interesting afternoon?" 

Quinn hesitates a second, like she's assessing her chances of being able to get away with a pretty implausible lie. The odds aren't in her favour - not with the obvious sex-mess her hair has become - so she quickly opts for smiling sweetly and clutching her sheet a little closer.

"You could say that. How were things for you at the library, Kurt?"

"Fewer orgasms to be had there, I dare say."

Santana appears at the door behind Quinn, wearing a silky black kimono robe that is cut short in the sleeves and at the hem. "Oh please, Hummel," she says. "Like you wouldn't be trying to get all over the two of us if you could only stand the sight of boobs. We're white hot and you know it."

Kurt is not blind, but he's also not going to give Santana the satisfaction of admitting it. He gestures between the two of them with the comb he's holding.

"I want to go on record at this early stage as saying that this is an absolute disaster waiting to happen."

Santana goes back in the room and comes out again with a lit cigarette, which she passes to Quinn and then to Kurt.

"There will be no disaster," Quinn says. "This was a one-time thing."

Kurt snorts with disbelief, handing the cigarette back to her after a calming exhale.

"Yeah. Okay."

Santana runs her whole hand across his waist as she wanders past him - half affection, half threat - and into his room, without asking permission.

"You're right to scoff, Porcelain. The girls always come back to me in the end."

"One time," Quinn repeats. She is smoking the cigarette all to herself now, loitering in the doorway, while Kurt steps back to keep an eye on Santana, who is circling his room and eyeing up each trinket with the possessive indifference of a museum guard.

After completing her inspection of his things, Santana comes over to his vanity and says, "Speaking of hot, you're looking kind of sharp tonight yourself. What gives?"

Kurt runs through the same calculations Quinn did a moment ago: _how likely is it that I could get away with something other than the truth?_

Before he can finish working it out, Quinn says, "He has a date," with such absolute delight that Kurt kind of wants to slap her.

Santana turns, holding a bottle of Kurt's cologne.

"Wait. Wait a second. You have a date with a boy? Who isn't Bobby? When the fuck did this happen?"

"It's not a date."

Kurt resists the urge to snatch the bottle out of Santana's hand and suffers in silence through her splashing it onto her wrists and rubbing them together, sniffing each one suspiciously, like the smell might have changed in the meantime.

Somehow managing to look graceful and effortless even while wearing a sheet, Quinn drifts forwards and offers the end of the smoke to Kurt. 

"Is he beautiful?" 

Kurt takes the cigarette and can't stop seeing Blaine's face in his imagination, cannot stop the way that it makes him smile. 

"He's lovely."

Quinn gives him a playful shove.

"Oh my God, you're half in love with him already."

"No," Kurt says, with certainty. "No. Love is for people who don't understand reality."

"You've changed your tune from when I first met you." Santana holds the cologne bottle up. "Trust me. You want this one. Head up."

Kurt lifts his chin so that she can spray a little above his collar. 

Of course he remembers what a romantic he used to be, when New York was still a city of dreams, and he had pictured meeting someone, falling hopelessly in love. Travelling the world. Settling in a beautiful little house in Spain. Cool and clean and filled with singing and sex and contentment.

That was before he learnt that his idea of love, like his image of New York, was no better than the wizard of the Emerald City: a total sham. 

"Well, now I've got a clue about how the world really works," he says. "And thank God for that."

Over by the open window, Quinn is looking out over the twilit city.

"Better not to be deceived," she says.

They all stare in that direction, caught up in the sight of New York, marvelling at how distant the city still seems even though it is all around them right now, beneath their feet and climbing up the walls.

Santana breaks the spell by reaching into the pocket of her robe and pulling out a pair of panties - black with lace trim. She dangles them from a fingertip and jiggles them enticingly in front of Kurt.

"You want to borrow these? They're my lucky pair."

He pushes the underwear out of his face. 

"I don't need your kind of luck."

"Oh I think you do." Santana jerks her head in Quinn's direction. "Look at this. They worked for me just now."

Kurt barely manages not to wince.

"So they're not even clean."

"I'll rinse them," Santana says. "You can wear them yourself. Or put them on your new boyfriend and have him wear them while you fuck him."

Quinn laughs, turning from the window in time to see Santana take Kurt by the back of the neck, the panties still held in her hand, and plant one right on his lips. "Enjoy kissing him hello with that image in your head," she says, as she pulls away.

Kurt frowns, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, almost too afraid to ask. 

"What do you taste of?"

Santana winces.

"Oh. Sorry. Wow, that's like spilling gravy all over a vegetarian's plate. I apologise, Kurt. Look at it this way: You're a bit less gay than you were when you woke up this morning. Congratulations!"

She claps him on the shoulder and looks over at Quinn, who is still in her sheet.

"I taste delightful," Quinn says, as she grinds the end of the cigarette into the ashtray on the windowsill.

Kurt reminds himself to brush his teeth again before leaving the apartment.

 

*

 

He gets to midtown a little early, but Blaine is even earlier, already waiting on the street, staring at a poster on the wall when Kurt arrives. 

Kurt recognises him from behind and walks up feeling nervous, running possible opening lines over in his head.

He doesn't get to use any of them. He notices the poster and it stops him dead. 

A sunlit bedroom. A man and woman wearing tasteful nightwear are kneeling on a huge double bed and smiling at each other. They are very close - foreheads touching. A pure white sheet is wrapped around the man's shoulders and the woman is holding the edges in her hands, pulling the cotton tight, using it to draw her man nearer. They look impossibly happy, lost in one another and the sunlight that surrounds them.

The strip at the bottom sports an image of a bottle of Lux laundry detergent and the tagline: _Your perfect canvas for starting something new._

"You used my idea."

Blaine startles and turns quickly, but smiles once they're face to face.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Kurt steps beside him and stares up at the poster. 

"Don't be sorry. I'm glad you did. It's nice to see it brought to life."

*

The bar is at the bottom of a set of stairs which head down from the street to a doorway crowned by red light. The click of Kurt's heels leads the way down the steps and past the doorman, who tilts his chin and offers them an "Evening, gentlemen," as he holds the door.

It's dark inside, like these places always are. The velvety air is all part of the atmosphere, along with the smells of cigarette smoke and brass and cologne. It's not like the Apollo. This bar isn't trying to be classy, it's just trying to be alive and vital and to bring something out of people - not the best or the worst, but both at once. Kurt shrugs out of his jacket, letting the atmosphere just roll over him. He’s off shift now. Tonight this is all for him.

Over by the stage, a woman is playing piano to fill the space with background noise before the performance. Bobby is already there, warming up with the guys and plucking experimentally at the strings of his double bass. He’s looking good in a trim little waistcoat and tight pants. 

For once, Kurt isn’t alone. Blaine is here, standing close but not too close - like he’s trying not to cling, but also doesn’t want to wander far. That sends a warm shiver up Kurt's spine, along with the impulse to reach behind for Blaine's hand. But that would be a little presumptuous. So Kurt just lifts his chin, pushes back his shoulders and heads straight for Bobby. Better to get it over with. Like diving straight into freezing water. 

Bobby grins when he notices them. He reaches out and pulls Kurt into a one-armed hug, while keeping a delicate grip on the neck of his bass with the other hand.

“Welcome to the jazz cave, sugar. Glad you came.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Kurt says. 

Bobby's grin gets a little wider when he looks over to Blaine. 

“And who did you bring?”

Blaine's manners kick in without a hitch. He’s smooth offering his hand for Bobby to shake and genuine in returning his smile.

“Blaine Anderson. Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m a friend of Kurt’s.”

Bobby’s about as subtle as Santana. He might as well be high-fiving Kurt overhead, what with how sly his gaze becomes. 

“Good to meet you, brother," he says as he and Blaine shake hands.

To Kurt's distress, the very next thing he does is turn round and whistle loudly before shouting, "Hey, Leo. Come on and meet Kurt's new beau."

Leo. With his cheerful face and pert little ass. So full of energy when his fingers fly across the piano keys that it makes Kurt exhausted just to look at him. He comes over with a pile of sheet music in his hand and stands close enough to Bobby that their elbows brush. 

"Hi," Leo says, looking them up and down. "Well, don't you two make a handsome pair?"

"Thanks," Blaine says. "So do you guys."

Not nearly fast enough, Kurt says: "We aren't a pair. We're friends."

Bobby chuckles, switching his bass from one hand to the other. "That won't last."

Kurt looks at him sharply.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"There's a reason all your friends are women, Kurt."

"Excuse me. Are you calling me loose?"

"I'm saying that you fall in love too easily."

"Love is imaginary." 

Kurt says it without thinking, momentarily oblivious to the fact that Blaine is standing right beside him. It sounds bitter and jaded and callous - and all those other things that Kurt probably is now - even to his own ears.

For a second, nobody knows what to say. Then, Leo wraps his hand around the neck of the double bass, so that his fingers can touch Bobby's without it being obvious.

"Not for us." 

He says it with a shrug that pretends his words are more casual than they are. Kurt finds that he can't look at either of them, so he turns round to look for a table instead.

"Blaine and I are going to get a drink."

"Be our guest," Bobby says. "We'll visit after."

The cocktail menu is impressive for a bar so small. It's printed on dog-eared card, sticky with old splashes of julep and grasshopper. Half the drinks here would be entirely beyond Andre's inferior bar-keeping skills, Kurt thinks, as he runs his finger down the list.

Opposite, Blaine is scanning the menu and gnawing at his bottom lip. He has the look of someone who is trying to make sense of a foreign language with nothing but basic phrasebook skills. He's obviously not ready when their waiter appears and slings a cloth between them to briskly wipe down the table.

"Your first round is on the band. What can I get for you boys?"

Kurt answers for the both of them.

"A screwdriver for him and I'll take a whiskey sour. Thanks." He smiles at Blaine. "You looked a little lost. Hope you don't mind. It's an easy drink. Good start to the night."

Blaine doesn't seem offended.

"I don't know what half of these are," he admits, stroking his fingertips over the drinks list. "I'm not much of a drinker."

"I know," Kurt says. "I remember."

"Right. Of course. I forgot that you've already seen me at my worst. Hopefully tonight won't end the same way."

 _With my mouth on your cock_ , Kurt thinks, but holds it back and smiles serenely like someone who is perfectly capable of keeping it together sitting across from a beautiful man in plain sight of Bobby and his new lover. 

If you fake something like that hard enough, it will be only a matter of time before it becomes true.

The waiter leaves their drinks, with a rather flattering wink in Kurt's direction. Blaine pulls his towards him and stirs the straw around the clinking ice cubes, while Kurt fishes the cherry out of his by the stalk and sucks the taste of whiskey and sugar off of it. He tilts his head as he does so, to keep that waiter in his eyeline.

"So. Tell me about you and Bobby."

Kurt almost inhales his cherry. The question's more direct than he would have expected. He looks at Blaine in surprise and finds him staring back with genuine curiosity.

"There's nothing really to tell. We survived an ordeal. That's all. We went through something traumatic together and now can't quite leave one another alone because of it."

"You're friends, then."

"I'm not sure. Friends might not be the best word."

Blaine does this adorable little head tilt to show that he's confused, so Kurt tries to think of a better way to explain it. 

"We aren't very comfortable around each other. Not really."

"But you've- I mean, the two of you have-"

"Had relations?" 

"Yes."

"Doesn't make you the best of friends. Otherwise I would certainly have more friends who are men."

"So what does that mean for us? I thought we were going to be friends?"

"You're an exception, Mr Anderson. A very welcome exception."

They smile at each other. Across the room, the pianist is bowing to a scattering of applause. Blaine claps too, leaning closer across the table so that Kurt can hear him over the increased noise.

"What Bobby said about you knowing lots of women..."

"I live with two of the girls from the club. I don't know where I'd be without them. Women definitely make good friends. There's nothing to complicate things."

It gets quiet again as Leo takes his seat at the piano and flutters his fingers over the keys, checking that everything is just right.

"I don't know about that," Blaine says.

Kurt looks away, over to the door, where a woman is shrugging out of her coat and handing it over to her date. He hadn't been planning to ask about Blaine's wife, but something comes over him and he blurts it out anyway. 

"What's Rachel like?"

Blaine thinks for a moment. He doesn't say anything until the lights begin to dim, except the one pointing at the stage, which swells to illuminate Bobby as he steps up to the microphone.

Right before the band kicks in, Blaine leans over again.

"I think you and she would adore each other if you met."

"Evening ladies and gentlemen," Bobby shouts from the stage. "We sure hope you enjoy the show."

 

*

 

Blaine might be pretty but he sure as hell can't hold his drink. That first night at the Apollo had clearly not been a one-off. He gets sloppy quickly, slinging his arm around Leo on the steps of the stage and waxing lyrical about their set, with the straw to another screwdriver sticking out between his teeth.

The whole bar is getting a little rowdy, so it's not like Blaine is out of place in his enthusiasm, but something about it makes Kurt nervous. Memories of the Apollo's back room, maybe. A niggle at the back of his mind that he'd better not completely let himself go, because at least one of them needs to keep his wits about him.

Kurt nurses his drink sulkily as he watches Blaine fool around with the band, who are all clearly smitten with him.

"I want to sing," Blaine cries out suddenly, not even noticing that he's slopping his cocktail onto the floor when he flings his arms about like that. "Can I sing?"

"I don't know," Bobby says. "Can you?"

"Alright, smart guy. _May_ I sing?"

Leo bounds back over to the piano and runs his fingers along the keys to get the room's attention. He beckons Blaine over.

"What do you want to sing, buddy? Name your tune."

Blaine looks at Kurt and grins like they have a shared secret; a secret which Blaine is about to announce to this whole crowd. It's unsettling. 

He whispers the song's name into Leo's ear, before taking up the mic and launching into 'I Want To Be Loved By You' from _Some Like It Hot_.

Blaine doesn't ham it up. Not exactly. He's not trying to act like Marilyn, doesn't put on a voice or make fun of her swings and shimmies. But he does give himself over to the performance completely. The batting eyelashes and hips sways all seem to just happen naturally. 

He comes alive before their eyes, somehow managing to exude Marilyn's unique light. 

Kurt finds himself watching with his mouth hanging open, marvelling at how such a famously feminine song can be so thoroughly owned by a male performer and him not become a laughing stock.

The crowd is a mess of cheers and whistles and applause as Blaine takes a laughing bow at the end of the number, blowing kisses carelessly. Clearly, he is so used to being adored that this reception is not worth getting worked up over.

The back door clatters shut as Kurt steps out into the night. He struggles to light a cigarette with shaking fingers, unable to decide if it's jealousy or pride or just plain old lust which has his stomach all twisted up in knots. He's still trying to work it out - and to get his damned cigarette lit - when the door creaks again and Bobby comes through it.

"Blaine's something, right?"

"Oh yeah. He's fabulous," Kurt snaps. "Until this city chews him up and spits him out. We'll see what's left of him then."

The light finally takes. Kurt inhales deeply, closing his eyes.

"Hey," Bobby says. "What happened to you? You used to be so optimistic. Now you act like you got the whole world on your shoulders, man."

"Things change. You start spending your nights sucking off asshole business men - who, by the way, would have been working beneath you if things had gone differently - just so that you can pay your bills. You try that and things might change for you too."

"Wait. What?"

"Forget it. I didn't say anything."

Kurt starts to walk away, but Bobby catches him by the arm. 

"Listen. Whatever's happened to you lately, I'm real sorry for it."

They've never talked that openly about what went on after they got caught. Kurt sees no reason for them to start now, especially not while Bobby's eyes are so filled with pity. That's the very last thing Kurt wants from him. He pries Bobby's fingers off his arm.

"It's not your fault. It was my choice. I did this to myself."

"No."

The voice makes them both turn. Kurt hadn't heard the door open again, but Blaine is coming towards them, his steps a little unsteady.

"That's bullshit. A single man sleeps with his single secretary and nobody says a word."

Kurt takes a shaky breath. "Just go back inside, Blaine."

"You didn't do this to yourself," Blaine continues. "The jerk who fired you did it. He had a choice too. It's not your fault that he made the wrong one."

"I said go back-"

"Maybe I'm the one who should go back inside," Bobby interrupts. He shows them his palms and backs away towards the door.

Kurt is still staring after him when Blaine steps forwards. 

"I've been thinking about you. I mean. I can't stop thinking about you."

"Fuck," Kurt says. 

"I feel like I've been looking, _searching_ , for this for a really long time. And I'm sick of pretending that I don't want it. Kurt."

Blaine takes his hand. Kurt blinks quickly, feeling as though he is watching this happen from outside himself.

"What?"

"Isn't there something here? Tell me. Am I crazy."

There is a weightless sensation in Kurt's stomach, like an elevator rising with him inside it. He licks his dry lips.

"You're not crazy."

One of Kurt's arms is bent at the elbow, holding his cigarette in the air. It stays right where it is as Blaine closes the gap between them and kisses Kurt on the mouth. It is very chaste, just a brush of lips, but he is shaking when he pulls away, his eyes searching Kurt's face for a reaction.

It takes guts to walk up to another man and kiss him like that. That is an act of bravery in this world. 

Kurt still remembers what that kind of bravery tastes like. 

He wants to taste it again.

There is always a risk, outside in public. Always risk. But it is dark enough here that they are mostly hidden once he backs Blaine into the shadows by the wall, once he flicks away his cigarette with its telltale glowing tip.

Blaine is breathing fast as Kurt guides their bodies close. His waist is small and firm under Kurt's hands. And when Kurt brushes fingertips over the skin just above Blaine's shirt collar, he tips his head back with a beautiful little gasp that makes Kurt's blood shiver in delight.

"You have something in you that I think I lost a long time ago," Kurt tells him.

Blaine struggles to meet his gaze in the dark.

"I still believe in the goodness of people. Maybe that's it."

He nudges forwards until their lips are just touching and then melts like liquid when Kurt kisses him properly for the first time. Blaine parts his lips, inhales, curves his spine into it, his every motion so perfectly pitched that it makes Kurt dizzy. 

Things get carried away fast. 

Before Kurt knows what's happening, he has one palm braced against the rough brickwork and the other curled around Blaine's hip, steadying their movements as their hips grind together. Blaine is panting into Kurt's mouth. His kisses are getting messier. His fingers clutch harder.

"Oh my god, stop," Kurt says, turning his head away when Blaine tries to chase after his lips. He grips Blaine's waist a little tighter, so that he can change the rhythm and make the movements longer, more drawn out. "Slow, slow. That's it. Like that."

"Oh," Blaine breathes, rolling his hips. "Slow."

"Yes."

They are just getting into this new groove when there comes a clatter of breaking glass and a burst of drunken laughter from around the front of the building. The commotion is far away from them, out on the street, but those noises are like a bucket of ice water. Kurt pulls away quickly, terrified at his own stupidity.

"We can't. We can't do this," he says, holding Blaine away and ignoring his whimper of frustration. 

Blaine is still drunk. He doesn't understand how dangerous this is. Kurt had been drunk too, when he'd pulled Bobby to one side of an elevator and kissed him in broad daylight. Blaming it on the liquor won't help one bit when you're faced with some guy who's ready to beat you to a pulp.

"Not here, I mean," Kurt says, lowering his voice even though he's almost certain that nobody is in earshot. "We can't do this here. My apartment. We could-"

Blaine's response is immediate.

"Take me," he says, squeezing Kurt's hand in the shadows. His eyes are bright and eager. "Take me there."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone sticking with this. I know I'm the slowest updater. But I'll get there in the end! <3

The world seems softer and prettier tonight, as though someone has smeared Vaseline over the camera lens.

Blaine's whole body is warm, tingling with arousal. He can't take his eyes off the man he's with. The way that Kurt moves, so tall and controlled, like nothing could knock him down, or make him trip, or steer him off course. He is so sure of who he is. Blaine envies that. If he can't have that kind of power himself, he wants to be as close to it as possible in somebody else.

They don't hold hands as they head out into the street, although they are close enough that they could - all Blaine would have to do is reach out for it.

He has the sense not to. There's a group of drunk guys yelling and pushing each other a few yards away, at the end of the block. Their noise is enough to sober him up a little.

After a few paces, Kurt stops walking abruptly. Blaine is so busy looking over his shoulder at the shouting men that he almost walks straight into him.

"Let me think a minute," Kurt says, putting out a hand to steady Blaine, while glancing up and down the dark street. "I don't remember which bus we need."

Blaine frowns at that. He's never taken a bus in his life. There are plenty of better ways to get around this city. 

A cab is already heading their way, so Blaine steps out and raises his arm to hail it down. The cab swings immediately towards them, in a wash of pale headlights. 

Before Blaine can get the door, Kurt catches his arm and digs his fingers in. Blaine looks at him, confused.

"I can't afford taxis all over town," Kurt says.

"So, I'll pay."

Kurt shakes his head.

"No. I don't want this to work like that."

Blaine thinks of the night they first met, of Sebastian offering bills tucked carefully into his hand, concealing the amount. This is just a taxi, though. It's not the same.

Kurt looks so tense right now. Blaine's instinct is to kiss him, to make that disappear. He almost does, forgetting totally where they are and who is nearby. He leans forwards and parts his lips, only stopping when Kurt grabs his shoulder and inhales sharp.

"Okay," he says, nudging Blaine towards the car. "The cab's on you. Get in."

* 

Keeping their hands to themselves, through the long cab ride to Kurt's building and then up three flights of stairs, is torture.

At the top of the stairs, Kurt puts his key in the lock and pauses there, looking back at Blaine.

"It's not much," he warns.

The hallway is empty. Blaine dares to press himself, full-body, against Kurt's back, delighting in the way that it makes Kurt fumble the key.

"I don't care if the place is falling down. I just want your hands on me."

Inside, the apartment is too dark for Blaine to see much anyway. There is one small window on the far wall. The lights of the opposite building shine through it, throwing the pattern of the window panes across the floor, like a gobo stretched over a spotlight.

Kurt doesn't switch any other lights on, but Blaine doesn't complain. The whole place smells familiar. It already feels safe.

At first they just stand there, breathing in the dark, slowly adjusting to the silence and isolation after being out on the city streets.

When Kurt finally moves towards him, Blaine stays still. He feels like he'll break a spell if he does anything else. His breath is shaky, as Kurt's hands wind around his waist. He can feel his own heartbeat all around, the very blood in his veins throbbing.

The first kiss here makes those in the alley seems cheap.

Kurt's tongue moves with his, slow and deep. There's no rush. No hesitation. Blaine has never felt like this from a kiss before. He inhales and wraps his arms around Kurt's body. The muscles in Kurt's back tense at his touch, ready to hold him tighter, hold him up, whatever he needs. Kurt is taller, broader, so different to Rachel. It's so right this way.

They break apart, both hard against the other's thigh, and rest there a moment. Kurt nuzzles his nose against Blaine's flushed cheek and takes Blaine's hand, lacing their fingers together.

"My bedroom's down the hall," he says, in that voice, which Blaine has been hearing in his dreams for months now.

Blaine hasn't the words to answer, so he just kisses Kurt again, and lets himself be led, down a narrow hallway and through a door, to a room where the smell of Kurt's cologne doubles and the weak city stars are on show through a tiny window.

They fall onto the bed together, shuffling so that their elbows and knees aren't knocking, and their bodies are aligned just right.

Blaine moans out loud when Kurt's weight settles over his hips, pressing right where he needs it most.

"Shh," Kurt soothes, laughing softly into Blaine's mouth. "I get it, baby. Right there."

Bracing himself up on one hand, he slides the other down Blaine's body, from shoulder to hip, his fingers fanning wide and then coming to rest lightly - so lightly, barely touching - over the bulge in Blaine's pants. Kurt presses the heel of his palm down just below Blaine's belly button, and Blaine's hips jerk in response.

"Please," Blaine gasps.

"Please what...?" Kurt says. He rocks his palm back and forth, the pressure too much, yet somehow also not enough.

With a burst of energy that surprises them both, Blaine knocks Kurt's hand aside and surges up to get their mouths together in another kiss.

While Kurt is still on the back foot, and before he can lose his nerve, Blaine says what he's been wanting to say all of this time.

"That thing you did to me when we first met. I want to try it. On you. Will you let me?"

He can't see the expression on Kurt's face in the shadows of this room, but he hears the way Kurt swallows, and feels Kurt's grip tighten around his biceps.

"What am I, an idiot?" Kurt says. "Get over here."

They manoeuvre on the bed until Kurt is the one on his back and Blaine is smoothing his hands nervously over Kurt's thighs. 

Kurt pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down.

"Do you need me to talk you through?"

Blaine runs the sides of his thumbs along the shape of Kurt's erection, noting the way that it makes Kurt shudder.

"I'm good. I'll find my way," he says, and then reaches for Kurt's fly.

Kurt falls back against the pillows as Blaine pulls him free from his underwear. It is the first time he has felt another man's cock in his hand. It's like touching himself, but sexier. Kurt is long and hard and velvety. There's a musky smell in the air, which makes Blaine dizzy with the need to bend down and taste.

He pumps his fist around Kurt's length a couple of times, just the way he'd do it on himself, before ducking his head to lick experimentally over the tip. 

Kurt's thigh muscles grow tense under Blaine's hands, as he holds back on the impulse to thrust up. Blaine doesn't think he'd had the presence of mind to do that himself, back on the Apollo's cave-lit couch. 

Kurt's had practice at this, though. It's no wonder he knows what he's doing.

The thought makes Blaine shiver with pleasure. For once, nobody is expecting him to know exactly what he's doing. He doesn't have to lead the way. Kurt will understand if he gets it wrong first time.

After a moment, Blaine feels brave enough to lick again, more slowly this time. He runs his tongue in little circles around the head, and then in one long stripe, halfway down the length, until he reaches his own knuckles.

The taste is like nothing Blaine could describe. It's not exactly sour, or salt, but tastes most like the scent of Kurt's body, that hot musk which surrounds them here, emanating from the pillows and sheets, through the pores of his skin and the exhale of his kiss. 

Blaine wants more of that taste inside of him.

On impulse, he closes his lips around the head of Kurt's cock and sucks hard, feeling the flesh twitch against his tongue.

"Fuck." Kurt turns his face into the pillows, his breath coming quicker. 

It is intoxicating for Blaine to know that he's the cause of that reaction. In his excitement, he tries to push further, to swallow up more, make Kurt feel even better.

It doesn't work. He gags inelegantly and has to pull back.

"You okay?" Kurt says, from the pillow.

"Yeah." 

Blaine's not prepared to give up. He lowers his head to try again, but only gags harder this time, his teeth grazing skin as he pulls off. 

He is still coughing and drooling when Kurt sits up.

"Oh, sweetie." Kurt rubs his hand between Blaine's shoulder blades. "You're really not great at that yet."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You'll learn. I'm an excellent teacher."

Blaine smiles at that. The moment is already broken. He tilts his face so that Kurt can wipe the tears from his watering eyes.

"That's lucky. I've always been a dedicated student."

"I'll bet. I bet you really apply yourself."

Kurt leans over him, pushing him down into the mattress. He rubs their noses together, to make Blaine laugh.

"Enthusiastic," Blaine says, running his hands up Kurt's arms. "That was always in my school report."

The buttons of Blaine's shirt part quickly and his legs fall open, to give Kurt space to settle between. Kurt slides his hands beneath Blaine's undershirt and pushes the cotton slowly up to his armpits. 

"Blaine Anderson is a pleasure to teach," Kurt says, in between kisses to Blaine's torso. "He is bright, enthusiastic and always willing to learn."

He drags his palms along Blaine's sides, making Blaine's whole body arch up into the touch.

"So willing," Blaine says. He likes the direction things are moving in, with Kurt sliding further down his body, until he's level with the straining bulge inside Blaine's pants. 

Holding Blaine's gaze, Kurt pops the button and reaches inside.

"Stay still and learn," he says, as he draws Blaine out and squeezes in a way that makes Blaine's whole body feel loose. "I'm going to grade you on it."

The liquid heat of Kurt's mouth is everything Blaine remembers it to be. He tries to pay attention this time, to the curls of Kurt's tongue and the easy opening of his throat, but before long he can only focus on the warmth spreading all through his body. 

The pleasure coils up harder and harder until his hips are thrusting up into the safe grip of Kurt's hands and Blaine is pressing his head back against the pillows, neck straining, as his body curls through the orgasm. 

He is still trembling, his head swimming with hazy sensation, when Kurt is suddenly back there beside him. 

"Keep still," Kurt whispers, hot against Blaine's ear.

He throws one leg over Blaine's hips and guides Blaine's hand to his still-hard dick. He wraps Blaine's fingers around it until Blaine comes to his senses enough to make a fist on his own.

"That's it," Kurt says, thrusting up, his body pressed along Blaine's side. "You don't need to move, baby. Doing perfect just like this."

Blaine turns his head on the pillow. He is surprised to find that his eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that he can meet Kurt's gaze and hold it, while Kurt keeps thrusting into his fist. The dim light from the window catches Kurt's sharp cheekbone, the fan of his pale eyelashes and the damp sheen of his parted lips. 

"You're so beautiful," Blaine whispers, as he tightens his grip just a little.

That's enough. Kurt squeezes his eyes shut and pushes forwards to crush his mouth to Blaine's and kiss him as he comes. Blaine works his fist gently up and down, ignoring the order to keep still, milking the last of the hot liquid that is already sliding down his knuckles, until Kurt whines and pushes his hand away.

They lie there together, Kurt's leg still draped over Blaine's, as they catch their breath. 

Blaine feels glorious. Giddy. At peace.

"How did I do?" he asks, trailing his fingers over the strong curve of Kurt's shoulder. 

"Mmm." Kurt turns his head to kiss Blaine lazily. "Full marks."

"Don't do that."

"What?" 

"Come on. You're not giving me anything to work towards. I nearly threw up at one point. There's obviously room for improvement."

Kurt laughs, the sound loud in the quiet room, like a sudden burst of music.

"Okay. How about a C+? Will you take that?"

"I can live with a C. I'll bounce back from that."

That laugh again. Kurt shakes his head and then presses his face against Blaine's neck, where a graze of teeth lets Blaine know Kurt is grinning.

"You're so..."

As the sentence trails off, Kurt goes completely still, sagging a little, like the life has left his body. Blaine doesn't like that. He squeezes his arms around Kurt tighter, trying to bring him back. This is the part Blaine is already good at. Comfort is one thing that he and Rachel do well. 

"Yeah? What am I?"

A moment's hesitation, but Blaine knows to just wait. When the answer comes, it's spoken quietly.

"You make me think in ways I haven't thought for a very long time," Kurt says. Then, he sighs. "I'm being stupid." 

"It isn't stupid."

Blaine kisses Kurt's temple and leave his lips there, resting comfortably. Kurt's eyelashes move in a flutter against his skin.

"Will you stay tonight?"

Blaine's eyes are already closed, lulled by the warmth and weight of Kurt's body in his arms.

"Of course," he says. "I don't think I could make myself leave."

*

Morning brings sunshine and the smell of coffee.

When Blaine lifts his head he feels the tug of what he has come to recognise as a relatively mild hangover. It's nothing compared to some of the really bad ones he's had after extended work meetings with clients, but it's enough to make him a little disorientated as he drags his face away from pillows that don't feel like his own and then sits up in a bed that is a bit too creaky and a bit too small.

Sunlight shines across the bed through the window, which is pushed open to let in the morning air. Thin curtains ripple gently in the breeze. This is Kurt's room, Blaine remembers. He knows that lingering scent. 

Yesterday's pants are in a heap on the floor. Blaine pulls those on and then takes a moment to flatten down his hair in front of the mirror - glancing curiously at the little drawings that are tacked to the frame - before venturing out into the hallway. 

The living room looks much smaller in the light of day. It is dominated by an ugly green couch and a dining table surrounded by mismatched chairs. A pretty throw covers the couch, to take the edge off, and there is a beautiful old mirror on one wall, giving the illusion of more space. 

On a small coffee table, which is littered with old copies of _Vogue_ , two ash trays, and a half-full bottle of gin, there is also a vase of small, tight-budded roses. The blossoms are only just beginning to peel open and show their white petals.

Someone has really tried to make the most of this place.

There's music coming from the kitchen on the other side the room. Blaine heads towards it and finds Kurt at the stove, with his back to the door. He's wearing a clean undershirt and slacks. His hair is already coiffed up like James Dean's. It makes Blaine feels shy and scruffy in comparison.

Kurt notices Blaine watching from the doorway as he's getting ready to pour the coffee. He smiles and throws a kitchen towel over one shoulder, like a chef in a restaurant kitchen.

"Hi. Smells good, right? Wouldn't I make the most perfect housewife? Oh, the irony."

"It does smell really good," Blaine says.

"We don't have a lot." Kurt switches off the flame beneath his frying pan. "But I made eggs. Do you like eggs?"

"Of course I like eggs."

Kurt turns to Blaine with a strange expression on his face, the frying pan in one hand.

"Are you okay? Is this weird now? Do you want me to show you out?"

Blaine blinks at him.

"You're asking me to leave?"

Kurt puts the pan back down. He pulls the kitchen towel from his shoulder and runs it between his fingers nervously. 

That's what the expression is, Blaine realises. Kurt is nervous. He's just as nervous as Blaine is.

"Far from it," Kurt says, but his voice is all tight, like he's holding half his breath back just in case. 

Blaine musters the courage to step up close to him. 

"Good," he says, leaning forward. "I'm dying for some eggs."

The kiss turns into a bit more than expected. Kurt's back is pressed to the counter and his hands settled squarely on Blaine's ass, when a woman comes into the kitchen, wearing nothing but her bra and slip.

"Whoops," she says. "Hello, boys."

Blaine springs back in alarm. The Apollo's beautiful blonde waitress is staring right at him.

"Don't mind me," she says. "There's no need to stop on my account."

"You and your underwear just spoilt the mood." Kurt gestures reluctantly. "Quinn, this is Blaine. He's a friend."

"It's lovely to meet you." Blaine offers her his hand, which she shakes with a barely-there grip. Her face is made up, but she's barefoot and her hair is full of curlers.

"I remember you," she says slowly. "You come to the club. Kurt, you're bringing work home now?"

"He isn't work."

"Wait!" Quinn presses her palms together like she's praying, then tips her hands so that the fingers are pointing in Blaine's direction. "Is this is him? Is this the date?" 

"This is Blaine. Like I already said."

"Santana's luck worked, then?"

"No," Kurt snaps. "Oh my God."

"Well, you were right," Quinn says, with a devilish smirk. "He's definitely lovely."

Confused, Blaine glances at Kurt, who actually seems to be blushing a little, then back to Quinn, who takes a mug from a shelf and holds it towards Kurt with a well-practised pout.

"Can you spare a little coffee to help a girl out?" 

"You can take every drop if it will put an end to this horrendously awkward encounter." 

Kurt lifts the coffee pot and fills her mug. Once he's done, Quinn takes her coffee and heads to the door.

"I'm glad to see you looking happy," she tells Kurt. "And I hope I'll see you around some more, Blaine."

With that, Quinn breezes out of the kitchen, like a waft of wind. 

"Sorry," Kurt says, after she has left. "That was dreadful."

"She seems nice." 

Blaine cannot believe that someone caught them kissing, but nothing terrible came of it. 

Kurt dishes up the food quickly, handing one plate to Blaine.

"Let's just eat our eggs and get you out of here before the other one wakes up. You're not ready for that yet."

At the dining table, they sit together over eggs and toast and coffee, listening as the city noise builds to a steady hum through the window.

After breakfast, Kurt throws open his wardrobe. He hunts through the hanging clothes for a clean shirt to lend, while Blaine finds himself drawn back to the mirror, studying those sketches more closely. They are drawings of people. Dreamy faces. Suits. Dresses. Poses you'd find in _Vogue_ or on billboards in Times Square.

"Did you draw these?" Blaine asks.

Kurt comes over with an immaculately pressed shirt. He stares at the sketches and nods.

"It's a hobby. I always used to draft artwork myself before we handed it over to design for full drafts. Gave them a better idea of what we were looking for."

Blaine points to a familiar image of a classically handsome man wearing a beautiful suit.

"Northwood Tobacco," he says. "My favourite."

"Yep. That's how it started out." Kurt smiles to himself. "Casting for that ad was my favourite day."

Blaine takes the shirt that Kurt is holding out to him. He pulls it on, still staring at the sketches. 

"They're really great."

Kurt gives a careless shrug.

"You can take one. If you like."

"Seriously?"

"It's not like I'm doing anything with them."

Blaine is just wondering if Northwood Tobacco would be too much to ask for, when Kurt turns and pulls the doors of his wardrobe wider, beckoning Blaine over to look.

"I also have these. They're a bit more...I don't know. Sometimes, I see ads and I think they're beautiful and all, but a part of me wonders what it would be like if there were people more like us in those pictures. So, I redraw them. You know. Just so I can see it."

The pictures in the wardrobe are bigger than those on the mirror and are drawn with more care. Some of them are from campaigns that Blaine recognises. There's even a movie poster or two. The stuff you see every day. Aspirational images of happy families and people in love.

What's different is that in these pictures, the couples are all men.

The wardrobe door creaks as Kurt tightens his grip on it. He's looking a little uncomfortable now, like he's regretting his decision to share.

"Anyway. This is embarrassing, so..."

"Can I have that one?" Blaine interrupts, touching the corner of an image that has caught his eye. 

It is the most familiar of them all. A couple is kneeling on a bed, surrounded by sunlight. A man holds onto the edges of a white sheet, which he has wrapped around his lover, another man, who has tanned skin and dark hair and looks almost like...

"Yes," Kurt says immediately, reaching out to unfasten the picture from the door. "It's yours."

*

As the weeks pass, nights spent at Kurt's tiny apartment become the most important feature of Blaine's life. 

Rachel notices. Of course she does. Only an idiot would be fooled by Blaine's lies about having to stay at the office, and Rachel is far from being stupid.

Sometimes, he catches her watching him, as he is whistling and humming his way around their apartment, dancing in little spins as he does everyday tasks like making the coffee or picking out a tie. She doesn't make a big deal of it, though. Not yet. Maybe she doesn't dare bring it up, for fear of what he might tell her. Perhaps it's just that Blaine is happier than he can ever remember being, and it shows. 

Besides, Rachel seems happier too. She is auditioning more than ever, is often out at the theatre, and spends hours practising the piano. 

For now, they are both content to live as half the other couples in Manhattan seem to: in mutual denial.

Work is where things are harder. 

Blaine has mostly learnt to ignore the way Sebastian looks at him and is becoming an expert at squirming out of invitations. He can just about stomach the double entendres and too-long touches. 

It is a daily battle, but one that Blaine seems to be winning.

Until the day comes that Sebastian runs a new play.

It's mid-October. The office is busy. Blaine's last meeting of the day overruns. He is already adding up the hours it will take him to get through the pile of work waiting on his desk. 

Mercedes stops him outside his office. Usually, she would have already left for the day, but she's been guarding the finished artwork for Alabama Leather.

"This is ready for sign off," she says, holding the first big board out to Blaine. "Mr. Schuester's still out in Los Angeles. That makes you next in line."

This is not the first time Blaine has given sign-off in the absence of their creative director. Taking the responsibility isn't quite as terrifying as it once was. The team works together to get things right in the drafts, so when completed work comes back from design, Blaine only has to make sure that it still looks the same.

In the case of Alabama Leather that means a picture of a laughing group of friends, walking down Fifth Avenue, their leather belts and patent purses "bringing Southern style to the big city streets". The tagline is Kurt's, whispered in Blaine's ear one morning, when he had been fully expecting to head into the final brainstorm completely dry of ideas.

Blaine smiles to himself as he dashes off his signature at the top of the image. The way that Kurt's eyes crinkle with delight when he knows he's struck gold with a slogan; it's impossible not to smile at that.

"Sometimes I want to just colour some of these white faces in with a brown Crayola and let it go to print like that," Mercedes says, lifting the artwork off the desk and flipping the cover paper back over the top of it. She'll take it down to the mail room before she leaves, ready for a courier to deliver it to the printers. "You know they always expect wacky ideas from you guys. They probably wouldn't question it until it was too late."

Blaine caps his pen and winks at her.

"If you did, I'd sign off on it."

"Sure. And then we'd both lose our jobs." 

Mercedes is grinning, both hands on her hips, but her expression changes without warning.

Blaine looks over his shoulder and finds that Sebastian is right there, watching the two of them with a nasty look on his face. He's been particularly unpleasant all day, snapping at the secretaries and slamming doors too hard.

"I imagine you would sign off on it, Anderson. You've got kind of a dark look yourself in the right light."

Before Blaine can even process that, Mercedes has stepped forwards.

"You shut your mouth," she says, staring up at Sebastian. 

Her words take all of them by surprise, Sebastian most of all. He gapes like a fish for a moment, before he finds his voice.

"You don't speak to me like that." He moves towards her, threatening in his height. "You're lucky someone like you even works here."

"Sebastian," Blaine says, alarmed. 

"Neither of you." Sebastian rounds on Blaine. "Neither of you speak to me like that."

It seems that is as far as things will go. Sebastian starts to walk away - he's angry, but at least he's leaving. 

But at the last second, he doubles back, forcing Blaine into his office and slamming the door behind them. 

Blaine is caught so off-guard that he almost falls. Sebastian's tight grip on his jacket lapel is the only thing that keeps him on his feet.

"I tell you what, Anderson," Sebastian snarls, right in Blaine's face. "I'm about losing patience with you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sebastian lets go of Blaine's jacket and puts an arm around him, his fingers digging hard into the small of Blaine's back. He uses that grip to tug Blaine against him, so close that Blaine can taste his breath. 

"It means I'm the boss's fucking son, you little moron. Work it out for yourself."

The hand at Blaine's back slides lower, where nobody's hand but Kurt's or Rachel's has been. 

Before Blaine can even get over the shock of that, let alone push the touch away, Sebastian has released him and stormed back out, leaving the door rattling in its frame.

Blaine stands in the middle of his office, unsteady and nauseous. This is both a complete surprise and all too expected. He goes over to check that the door is really closed, then leans back against it, trying to calm the sensations in his stomach before he makes a mess of the company carpets. 

Once he feels steady enough, he opens the door and comes face to face with Mercedes. She has her fist raised to knock and only just avoids punching him in the chest.

"I was coming to check you were okay."

"I'm fine," Blaine says, but Mercedes takes him by the arm and steers him back towards his couch. 

"You are going to sit yourself down right here while I fix you something to steady your nerves."

Blaine obeys. He laces his fingers together and squeezes tight, trying to keep himself anchored.

There's the clinking of the decanter and then Mercedes is kneeling in front of him, offering a glass. Blaine secretly thinks that booze might make things worse, but he takes the drink anyway and thanks her for it.

"What did he say to you, honey?" Mercedes asks, and then shakes her head before Blaine can answer. "No, don't worry. I know what he said. He's a spoilt, angry little boy who doesn't like it when there's something he can't have."

Blaine's stomach gives another lurch. Hearing someone else say it makes it more real than it has ever been before.

"What do I do?"

"Same as you're doing, I guess. Try as best you can to ignore it."

Blaine takes an unsteady mouthful of his drink, wincing at the burn across his tongue.

"The other men here treat the secretaries like that. Is this what it feels like? Because it feels pretty awful."

Mercedes sighs and gives his arm a squeeze. She is about to say something, when the phone on his desk begins to ring. 

"Hold that thought," Mercedes says, as she picks up the phone. "Mr Anderson's office." 

Blaine takes another drink.

"Just a moment, please." Mercedes covers the receiver with one hand. "It's your aunt Marilyn. Do you want me to take a message?"

"I don't have..." Blaine frowns. "Wait a second. Did you say Marilyn?"

"Yes, sir."

He stands up so fast that he almost spills his drink. He takes the receiver and presses it to his chest.

"Marilyn wouldn't call if it wasn't important. I better take this in private. Thank you, Miss Jones. You should go home. It's late." 

Mercedes gives him a sceptical look, the kind his mother used to give him, but eventually turns and heads for the door.

"Alright. You take care of yourself. I'll see you in the morning."

Only once the door is closed behind her does Blaine lift the receiver, hoping that this isn't a wrong number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, handsome."

"Kurt,” Blaine sighs in relief. “I wasn't sure it was you."

"Don't tell me you actually have an aunt Marilyn?"

"No. I don't."

There's a rustle on the end of the line, like Kurt is changing position, shifting the phone from one ear to the other.

"What's up? You don't sound right."

Blaine stares out of his office window, trying to imagine how to phrase what has just happened. He grips the receiver more tightly.

"I can't really talk about it over the phone."

"Then, isn't it lucky that I'm on my way downtown," Kurt says, sounding cheerful. "I need to grab dinner before work. Do you want to get a bite with me?"

Blaine glances at the piles of work still stacked on his desk.

"That sounds amazing."

"Good."

"But I have so much to do that I'm going to be stuck here for hours."

"Well," Kurt says, "There is a simple and obvious question that will solve this dilemma."

"What's that?"

"What is Blaine Anderson's favourite kind of takeout?"

*

Kurt is looking sexy when he arrives, in the black pants and white shirt that he wears to work. The sight of him makes a weight lift up and off of Blaine's chest.

"You're lucky," Kurt says, with a coy smile. "I don't usually make home visits."

The building is empty at this hour, but Blaine still closes his office door before kissing him hello.

"I'm here so much lately, this place might as well be my home."

"My place is your home," Kurt says, without hesitation, as he begins to unpack the Chinese food he has brought. "You know that by now. The key's under the mat if you want to go there and stay tonight until I'm done working." 

It hasn't even been two months, but they seem to have broken through some barriers lately. Blaine has noticed the difference in how Kurt behaves with him. 

Marrying Rachel had once meant becoming a part of her family, her dreams and her security. Now, Blaine feels tethered to Kurt in that same way, only more so. He has been let into a place that not many people have been allowed to see. Being with someone like this means becoming claimed and absorbed into their world.

Obviously they are not husband and wife, but Blaine isn't sure what name he can give to what they are. The world doesn't seem to have a word for it yet.

They eat their food straight from the cartons, sitting on the floor and leaning back against Blaine's couch. Kurt is barely competent with chopsticks, but he refuses to switch to a fork until he has a very near miss involving a lump of char siu and his clean white shirt. He admits defeat at that, but only because Blaine decides loudly that he had better switch to a fork himself because he's worried about getting splinters in his mouth from the cheap wood.

Blaine knows that Kurt sees through his lie, but is secretly grateful for it. 

They've pretty much finished eating, are picking the last scraps of noodle from the bottom of the cartons, when, out of the blue, Kurt says, "So, Bobby sent me this letter today."

For the second time that evening, Blaine's heart practically stops beating. He fumbles the last piece of cashew chicken and leaves a sauce stain on his sleeve.

"What kind of letter?"

Kurt must be able to see what Blaine is thinking, because he reaches out for him immediately.

"Baby," Kurt says, squeezing at the juncture between Blaine's neck and shoulder, which doesn't feel like enough to make up for the fright he just caused. "Nothing like that. It was an apology, I guess. Just...feeling sorry about the way things worked out. How everything went so wrong for no reason except that we liked each other and we decided not to ignore it. He said what happened with me is what set him on the path he's on now. If we'd never gotten caught, he might still be manning elevators, and...Well. I'll show you."

Kurt reaches into his pants pocket for the letter, which he hands to Blaine. It is written on lined, loose-leaf paper, the kind you get in a school. 

Blaine skims what Bobby has written, his attention lingering over the last paragraphs:

_God doesn't make mistakes. Those elevator rides were not a mistake. We didn't do wrong, Kurt._

_I'm sorry for your hardship. I know that you are the one being tested now. But I also know that good will come to you. The strongest among us get tested the hardest._

_If you need a friend or help or anything I can give you -- just pick up the phone._

_Have patience. Good will come._

_Forever on your side --  
Bobby_

Bobby's handwriting is predictably the opposite of Blaine's; it is loose and free, instead of tight cursive. Blaine stares at it a moment longer before he passes the letter back to Kurt.

"Are you going to write him back?"

"I don't know." 

"I hate thinking about you with him," Blaine says. He is suddenly unable to keep a growing sense of jealousy in check.

Kurt smiles at that, like it is something to joke about. 

"I'm yours," he says.

Blaine doesn't think this is funny. He pulls his hand away when Kurt tries to take it.

"Not really. There's already this chain of men behind you. And any minute now you're going to stand up and leave me because your shift at that bar is about to start. You've let Sebastian pay you for it. Of all people."

Kurt is looking at him like he is crazy now, but Blaine can't stop it. He doesn't know where the anger is coming from.

"I've never been with Sebastian,” Kurt says. “He just doesn't like virgins. He's always looking for somebody to take the edge off first."

"And that's what you were doing. That first time with me."

"I didn't know you then. I do what I'm asked to do."

"What you're paid to do."

"Right. Same as you. Are we seriously fighting right now? Don't you moralise to me. You work in advertising. Mind control. You're in the business of manipulating people in ways they can't fight against."

"I'm not using my body to hurt people."

"At what point did I hurt you?"

To Blaine's surprise, he can feel the sting of sudden tears in his eyes. He scrambles to his feet, knocking at least two takeout cartons over in his rush to make sure that Kurt doesn't see, and heads to the window, where he can get rid of the tears in secret. 

It is a dark night, covered in cloud. The office lights turn the window glass into an eerie mirror which lets Blaine see both inside and out, one view layered over the top of the other. It gives the illusion of his office being projected across the opposite building and the city beyond it.

Kurt appears behind him in the reflection. His arm slides around Mirror Blaine's waist. He turns his head to the side and lays that against Blaine's shoulder.

"What happened to you today?" he asks, quietly.

Blaine feels the tears return. He has no idea how to explain what he's afraid of.

"It was Sebastian."

"What did he say?"

"I'm scared of what might happen if I don't start giving him what he wants. Men like him have all the power, Kurt."

"That brat can't touch you."

"He already did. Today."

Kurt tightens his arm around Blaine's waist and lifts his head, so that their gazes can meet in the glass.

"Oh, Blaine. That makes me want to slit his stupid throat. Don't worry, though. I have all the dirt in the world on him. If he pushes you again, we can bury him in it. We have power too." Kurt nods towards the window. "Look at us. We practically own this city."

Blaine stares at their joined reflections, made large and thrown across the skyline, and all at once, it really hits him.

"I'm in love with you," he says. 

Kurt's arm goes slack at his waist. Blaine turns around to face him.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're in love with your wife."

"No."

"Blaine."

"It's true," Blaine says. He feels drunk. "She doesn't love me either. She used to be in love with some guy she met on vacation, who her parents didn't think was good enough for her. They made her settle for me instead."

"Settle for you? That's crazy talk."

"But you, Kurt..." Blaine reaches out, takes Kurt's face in his hands. "You and me...when I'm with you, all those movies make sense. They aren't just stories any more. Honey, you make me feel like Marilyn Monroe."

"Stop it," Kurt says, but he's smiling.

"I won't." Blaine kisses him. "Not until our elevator crashes."

Kurt wraps both arms around Blaine's neck for the next kiss, to reel him in closer.

"You don't know anything about anything," he whispers, as their lips part. "Not yet."

"Neither do you," Blaine whispers back.

*

It is a short walk to the Apollo from the office. Kurt leaves Blaine with kisses and promises and reminders about the key under the mat. He jaywalks across the street and heads two blocks down to reach the bar's familiar pink glow.

Fridays are always busy; he is expecting to be run off his feet tonight. Neither Quinn nor Santana are on shift, and Sue has decided it's high time that Andre starting waiting tables. Kurt is supposed to be 'training' him - a laughable proposition considering Andre can't even balance a tray - while also taking care of all his own tables.

He clocks the man in the pinstripe suit as soon as he walks in. The guy has the sort of shift-eyed look that a lot of first-timers do. It isn't a surprise when Sue jerks her head towards the man's table. Kurt already knew this one was going to be for him. 

He doesn't think for even one second that something could be amiss. Mostly, he's just worried about the damage Andre might do in his absence.

"Table four needs checking up on. Take that bottle to table six. And...Andre?" Kurt snaps his fingers. "Are you listening to me or not?"

Andre turns quickly, from where he has been ogling Charlotte as she bends over to reach the shelf beneath the bar.

"Yes."

"And don't let those guys on table two skip out on the check," Kurt continues. "They're too drunk. I've got a hunch they might try it."

"Wait. If something goes wrong. Can I..." Andre's gaze drifts to the curtain covering the back room doorway. "Can I interrupt?"

Kurt looks at him in disbelief.

"What do you think?"

"I think...no?"

"I think you're right. And, for your information, if you break another glass, I'm not going to stop Sue docking it from your pay this time. Now. How does my hair look?"

Andre glances up at it uncertainly.

"Good?"

"You are literally going to get nowhere in any profession, ever." Kurt is unable to refrain from rolling his eyes as he heads off towards the man in the pinstripes.

"I said good, though!" Andre calls after him.

The man in the pinstripes is stocky and at least forty. The stripes make him look fatter than he is and he has gone far too heavy on the cologne. There's also a weird scar running all across the knuckles of his right hand. 

Not exactly Kurt's type.

Getting him to the back room takes next to nothing. The fact that it's so much easier than usual should ring alarm bells, but it is not until the curtain hiding the door is being pushed aside and there are suddenly three other men in the room that Kurt realises he might be in some trouble here.

"Sorry, gentlemen," he says, reaching one hand behind him for anything heavy enough to use as a weapon, but finding nothing but the wall. “I only do this one at a time.”

The man in the pinstripes steps forwards. The other guys loom behind him, blocking the room's only exit.

"Don't panic. We're not here for that," pinstripes says. He produces a knife and flicks it open, the edge glinting in the room's dull light. 

He holds the blade up with something close to a smile. "We're just here about the money you owe us."

**Author's Note:**

> Sincere apologies for any glaring historical inaccuracies. Watching Mad Men was pretty much my only form of research.


End file.
